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DEDICATION 


If I were hanged on the highest hill, 

Mother o’ mine , O mother o’ mine! 

I know whose love would follow me still, 
Mother o’ mine, 0 mother o’ mine! 

If I were drowned in the deepest sea, 

Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine! 

I know whose tears would come down to me. 
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine! 

If I were damned of body and soul, 

I know whose prayers would make me whole, 
Mother o’ mine, 0 mother o’ mine! 


LIGHT THAT FAILED 




/ 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


Maisie Frontispiece 

Photogravure by John Andrew & Son after 
original by Reginald Bolles 

Maisie Poked the Gravel With Her 

Parasol 86 

Mezzogravure by John Andrew & Son after 
original by Reginald Bolles 

“Pve Been Down to Hell to get Her” 225 

Mezzogravure by John Andrew & Son after 
original by Reginald Bolles 

Torpenhow Knelt . . . with Dick's 

Body in His Arms 355 

Mezzogravure by John Andrew & Son after 
original by Reginald Bolles 


LIGHT THAT FAILED 















THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 








CHAPTER I 


So we settled it all when the storm was done 
As comfy as comfy could be; 

And I was to wait in the barn, my dears, 

Because I was only three, 

And Teddy would run to the rainbow’s foot, 
Because he was five and a man; 

And that’s how it all began, my dears. 

And that’s how it all began. 

Big Barn Stories. 

£4TT7"HAT do you think she’d do if she 
** caught us? We oughtn’t to have it, 
you know,” said Maisie. 

“Beat me, and lock you up in your bed- 
room,” Dick answered, without hesitation. 
“Have you got the cartridges ?” 

“Yes; they’re in my pocket, but they are 
joggling horribly. Do pin-fire cartridges go 
off of their own accord?” 

“Don’t know. Take the revolver, if you are 
afraid, and let me carry them.” 

“I’m not afraid.” Maisie strode forward 
swiftly, a hand in her pocket and her chin in 
the air. Dick followed with a small pin-fire 
revolver. 

The children had discovered that their lives 

i 


2 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


would be unendurable without pistol-practice. 
After much forethought and self-denial, Dick 
had saved seven shillings and sixpence, the 
price of a badly-constructed Belgian revolver. 
Maisie could only contribute half a crown to 
the syndicate for the purchase of a hundred 
cartridges. “You can save better than I can, 
Dick,” she explained ; “I like nice things to eat, 
and it doesn’t matter to you. Besides, boys 
ought to do these things.” 

Dick grumbled a little at the arrangement, 
but went out and made the purchases, which 
the children were then on their way to test. 
Revolvers did not lie in the scheme of their 
daily life as decreed for them by the guardian 
who was incorrectly supposed to stand in the 
place of a mother to these two orphans. Dick 
had been under her care for six years, during 
which time she had made her profit of the al- 
lowances supposed to be expended on his 
clothes, and, partly through thoughtlessness, 
partly through a natural desire to pain, — she 
was a widow of some years, anxious to marry 
again, — had made his days burdensome on his 
young shoulders. Where he had looked for 
love, she gave him first aversion and then hate. 
Where he, growing older, had sought a little 
sympathy, she gave him ridicule. The many 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


3 


hours that she could spare from the ordering 
of her small house she devoted to what she 
called the home-training of Dick Heldar. Her 
religion, manufactured in the main by her 
own intelligence and a keen study of the Scrip- 
tures, was an aid to her in this matter. At 
such times as she herself was not personally 
displeased with Dick, she left him to under- 
stand that he had a heavy account to settle 
with his Creator; wherefore Dick learned to 
loathe his God as intensely as he loathed Mrs. 
Jennett; and this is not a wholesome frame of 
mind for the young. Since she chose to regard 
him as a hopeless liar, when dread of pain 
drove him to his first untruth he naturally de- 
veloped into a liar, but an economical and 
self-contained one, never throwing away the 
least unnecessary fib, and never hesitating at 
the blackest, were it only plausible, that might 
make his life a little easier. The treatment 
taught him at least the power of living alone, 
a power that was of service to him when he 
went to a public school and the boys laughed 
at his clothes, which were poor in quality and 
much mended. In the holidays he returned to 
the teachings of Mrs. Jennett, and, that the 
chain of discipline might not be weakened by 
association with the world, was generally 


4 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


beaten, on one count or another, before he 
had been twelve hours under her roof. 

The autumn of one year brought him a 
companion in bondage, a long-haired, grey- 
eyed little atom, as self-contained as himself, 
who moved about the house silently and for 
the first few weeks spoke only to the goat 
that was her chiefest friend on earth and lived 
in the back-garden. Mrs. Jennett objected to 
the goat on the grounds that he was un- 
Christian, — which he certainly was. “Then,” 
said the atom, chosing her words very delib- 
erately, “I shall write to my lawyer-peoples 
and tell them that you are a very bad woman. 
Amomma is mine, mine, mine!” Mrs. Jen- 
nett made a movement to the hall, where cer- 
tain umbrellas and canes stood in a rack. The 
atom understood as clearly as Dick what this 
meant. “I have been beaten before,” she said, 
still in the same passionless voice; “I have 
been beaten worse than you can ever beat me. 
If you beat me I shall write to my lawyer-peo- 
ples and tell them that you do not give me 
enough to eat. I am not afraid of you.” 
Mrs. Jennett did not go into the hall, and the 
atom, after a pause to assure herself that all 
danger of war was past, went out, to weep 
bitterly on Amomma’s neck. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


'5 

Dick learned to know her as Maisie, and at 
first mistrusted her profoundly, for he feared 
that she might interfere with the small liberty 
of action left to him. She did not, however; 
and she volunteered no friendliness until Dick 
had taken the first steps. Long before the 
holidays were over, the stress of punishment 
shared in common drove the children together, 
if it were only to play into each other’s hands 
as they prepared lies for Mrs. Jennett’s use. 
When Dick returned to school, Maisie whis- 
pered, “Now I shall be all alone to take care of 
myself; but,” and she nodded her head 
bravely, “I can do it. You promised to send 
Amomma a grass collar. Send it soon.” A 
week later she asked for that collar by return 
of post, and was not pleased when she learned 
that it took time to make. When at last Dick 
forwarded the gift she forgot to thank him 
for it. 

Many holidays had come and gone since 
that day, and Dick had grown into a lanky 
hobbledehoy more than ever conscious of his 
bad clothes. Not for a moment had Mrs. Jen- 
nett relaxed her tender care of him, but the 
average canings of a public school — Dick fell 
under punishment about three times a month 
— filled him with contempt for her powers. 


I 


6 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“She doesn’t hurt,” he explained to Maisie, 
who urged him to rebellion, “and she is kinder 
to you after she has whacked me.” Dick 
shambled through the days unkempt in body 
and savage in soul, as the smaller boys of the 
school learned to know, for when the spirit 
moved him he would hit them, cunningly and 
with science. The same spirit made him 
more than once try to tease Maisie, but the 
girl refused to be made unhappy. “We are 
both miserable as it is,” said she. “What is 
the use of trying to make things worse? Let’s 
find things to do, and forget things.” 

The pistol was the outcome of that search. 
It could only be used on the muddiest fore- 
shore of the beach, far away from bathing- 
machines and pier-heads, below the grassy 
slopes of Fort Keeling. The tide ran out 
nearly two miles on that coast and the many- 
colored mud-banks, touched by the sun, sent 
up a lamentable smell of dead weed. It was 
late in the afternoon when Dick and Maisie 
arrived on their ground, Amomma trotting 
patiently behind them. 

“Mf!” said Maisie, sniffing the air. “I 
wonder what makes the sea so smelly. I 
don’t like it.” 

“You never like anything that isn’t made 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


7 


just for you,” said Dick, bluntly. “Give me 
the cartridges, and I’ll try first shot. How 
far does one of these little revolvers carry?” 

“Oh, half a mile,” said Maisie, promptly. 
“At least it makes an awful noise. Be care- 
ful with the cartridges; I don’t like those 
jagged stick-up things on the rim. Dick, do 
be careful.” 

“All right. I know how to load. I’ll fire 
at the breakwater out there.” 

He fired, and Amomma ran away bleating. 
The bullet threw up a spurt of mud to the 
right of the weed-wreathed piles. 

“Throws high and to the right. You try, 
Maisie. Mind, it’s loaded all round.” 

Maisie took the pistol and stepped deli- 
cately to the verge of the mud, her hand 
firmly closed on the butt, her mouth and left 
eye screwed up. Dick sat down on a tuft of 
bank and laughed. Amomma returned very 
cautiously. He was accustomed to strange 
experiences in his afternoon walks, and, find- 
ing the cartridge-box unguarded, made in- 
vestigations with his nose. Maisie fired, but 
could not see where the bullet went. 

“I think it hit the post,” she said, shading 
her eyes and looking out across the sailless sea. 

“I know it has gone out to the Marazion 


8 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


Bell Buoy/’ said Dick, with a chuckle. “Fire 
low and to the left; then perhaps you’ll get it. 
Oh, look at Amomma! — he’s eating the cart- 
ridges !” 

Maisie turned, the revolver in her hand, 
just in time to see Amomma scampering away 
from the pebbles Dick threw after him. 
Nothing is sacred to a billy-goat. Being well 
fed and the adored of his mistress, Amomma 
had naturally swallowed two loaded pin-fire 
cartridges. Maisie hurried up to assure her- 
self that Dick had not miscounted the tale. 

“Yes, he’s eaten two.” 

“Horrid little beast! Then they’ll joggle 
about inside him and blow up, and serve him 
right. . . . Oh, Dick ! have I killed 

you?” 

Revolvers are tricky things for young hands 
to deal with. Maisie could not explain how 
it had happened, but a veil of reeking smoke 
separated her from Dick, and she was quite 
certain that the pistol had gone off in his face. 
Then she heard him sputter, and dropped on 
her knees beside him, crying, “Dick, you 
aren’t hurt, are you? I didn’t mean it.” 

“Of course you didn’t,” said Dick, coming 
out of the smoke and wiping his cheek. “But 
you nearly blinded me. That powder stuff 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


9 


stings awfully.” A neat little splash of grey 
lead on a stone showed where the bullet had 
gone. Maisie began to whimper. 

“Don’t,” said Dick, jumping to his feet and 
shaking himself. “I’m not a bit hurt.” 

“No, but I might have killed you,” pro- 
tested Maisie, the corners of her mouth 
drooping. “What should I have done then?” 

“Gone home and told Mrs. Jennett.” Dick 
grinned at the thought ; then, softening, 
“Please don’t worry about it. Besides, we are 
wasting time. We’ve got to get back to tea. 
I’ll take the revolver for a bit.” 

Maisie would have wept on the least en- 
couragement, but Dick’s indifference, albeit 
his hand was shaking as he picked up the pis- 
tol, restrained her. She lay panting on the 
beach while Dick methodically bombarded the 
breakwater. “Got it at last!” he exclaimed, 
as a lock of weed flew from the wood. 

“Let me try,” said Maisie, imperiously. 
“I’m all right now.” 

They fired in turns till the rickety little re- 
volver nearly shook itself to pieces, and 
Amomma the outcast — because he might 
blow up at any moment — browsed in the back- 
ground and wondered why stones were thrown 
at him. Then they found a balk of timber 


io THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


floating in a pool which was commanded by 
the seaward slope of Fort Keeling, and they 
sat down together before this new target. 

“Next holidays,” said Dick, as the now 
thoroughly fouled revolver kicked wildly in 
his hand, “we’ll get another pistol, — central 
fire, — that will carry farther.” 

“There won’t be any next holidays for me,” 
said Maisie. “I’m going away.” 

“Where to?” 

“I don’t know. My lawyers have written 
to Mrs. Jennett, and I’ve got to be educated 
somewhere, — in France, perhaps, — I don’t 
know where; but I shall be glad to go away.” 

“I shan’t like it a bit. I suppose I shall be 
left. Look here, Maisie, is it really true 
you’re going? Then these holidays will be 
the last I shall see anything of you; and I go 
back to school next week. I wish” — 

The young blood turned his cheeks scarlet. 
Maisie was picking grass-tufts and throwing 
them down the slope at a yellow sea-poppy 
nodding all by itself to the illimitable levels of 
the mud-flats and the milk-white sea beyond. 

“I wish,” she said after a pause, “that I 
could see you again some time. You wish 
that too?” 

“Yes, but it would have been better if — if — 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED n 


you had — shot straight over there — down by 
the breakwater.” 

Maisie looked with large eyes for a moment. 
And this was the boy who only ten days be- 
fore had decorated Amomma’s horns with 
cut-paper ham-frills and turned him out, a 
bearded derision, among the public ways. 
Then she dropped her eyes: this was not the 
boy. 

“Don’t be stupid,” she said, reprovingly, 
and with swift instinct attacked the side-issue. 
“How selfish you are! Just think what I 
should have felt if that horrid thing had killed 
you! I’m quite miserable enough already.” 

“Why? Because you’re going away from 
Mrs. Jennett?” 

“No.” 

“From me, then?” 

No answer for a long time. Dick dared 
not look at her. He felt, though he did not 
know, all that the past four years had been to 
him, and this the more acutely since he had 
no knowledge to put his feelings in words. 

“I don’t know,” she said. “I suppose it is.” 

“Maisie, you must know. I’m not suppos- 
ing.” 

“Let’s go home,” said Maisie, weakly. 

But Dick was not minded to retreat. 


12 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“I can’t say things,” he pleaded, “and I’m 
awfully sorry for teasing you about Amomma 
the other day. It’s all different now, Maisie, 
can’t you see? And you might have told me 
that you were going, instead of leaving me to 
find out.” 

“You didn’t. I did tell. Oh, Dick, what’s 
the use of worrying?” 

“There isn’t any; but we’ve been together 
years and years, and I didn’t know how much 
I cared.” 

“I don’t believe you ever did care.” 

“No, I didn’t; but I do, — I care awfully 
now, Maisie,” he gulped, — “Maisie, darling, 
say you care too, please.” 

“I do; indeed I do; but it won’t be any use.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I am going away.” 

“Yes, but if you promise before you go. 
Only say — will you?” A second “darling” 
came to his lips more easily than the first. 
There were few endearments in Dick’s home 
or school life; he had to find them by instinct. 
Dick caught the little hand blackened with the 
escaped gas of the revolver. 

“I promise,” she said, solemnly; “but if I 
care there is no need for promising.” 

“And you do care?” For the first time in 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


13 


the last few minutes their eyes met and spoke 
for them who had no skill in speech. . . . 

“Oh, Dick, don’t! please don’t! It was all 
right when we said good-morning ; but now 
it’s all different!” Amomma looked on from 
afar. He had seen his property quarrel fre- 
quently, but he had never seen kisses ex- 
changed before. The yellow sea-poppy was 
wiser, and nodded its head approvingly. Con- 
sidered as a kiss, that was a failure, but since 
it was the first, other than those demanded by 
duty, in all the world that either had ever 
given or taken, it opened to them new worlds, 
and every one of them glorious, so that they 
were lifted above the consideration of any 
worlds at all, especially those in which tea is 
necessary, and sat still, holding each other’s 
hands and saying not a word. 

“You can’t forget now,” said Dick at last. 
There was that on his cheek that stung more 
than gunpowder. 

“I shouldn’t have forgotten anyhow,” said 
Maisie, and they looked at each other and 
saw that each was changed from the compan- 
ion of an hour ago to a wonder and a mystery 
they could not understand. The sun began to 
set, and a night-wind thrashed along the bents 
of the foreshore. 


14 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“We shall be awfully late for tea,” said 
Maisie. “Let’s go home.” 

“Let’s use the rest of the cartridges first,” 
said Dick; and he helped Maisie down the 
slope of the fort to the sea, — a descent that 
she was quite capable of covering at full speed. 
Equally gravely Maisie took the grimy hand. 
Dick bent forward clumsily; Maisie drew the 
hand away, and Dick blushed. 

“It’s very pretty,” he said. 

“Pooh!” said Maisie, with a little laugh of 
gratified vanity. She stood close to Dick as 
he loaded the revolver for the last time and 
fired over the sea with a vague notion at the 
back of his head that he was protecting Maisie 
from all the evils in the world. A puddle far 
across the mud caught the last rays of the 
sun and turned into a wrathful red disc. The 
light held Dick’s attention for a moment, and 
as he raised his revolver there fell upon him a 
renewed sense of the miraculous, in that he 
was standing by Maisie who had promised 
to care for him for an indefinite length of 
time till such date as — A gust of the grow- 
ing wind drove the girl’s long black hair 
across his face as she stood with her hand on 
his shoulder calling Amomma “a little beast,” 
and for a moment he was in the dark, — a 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


15 

darkness that stung. The bullet went sing- 
ing out to the empty sea. 

“Spoiled my aim,” said he, shaking his 
head. “There aren’t any more cartridges; we 
shall have to run home.” But they did not 
run. They walked very slowly, arm in arm. 
And it was a matter of indifference to them 
whether the neglected Amomma with two 
pin-fire cartridges in his inside blew up or 
trotted beside them; for they had come into 
a golden heritage and were disposing of it 
with all the wisdom of their years. 

“And I shall be” — quoth Dick, valiantly. 
Then he checked himself : “I don’t know what 
I shall be. I don’t seem to be able to pass any 
exams., but I can make awful caricatures of 
the masters. Ho! ho!” 

“Be an artist, then,” said Maisie. “You’re 
always laughing at my trying to draw ; and it 
will do you good.” 

“I’ll never laugh at anything you do,” he 
answered. “I’ll be an artist, and I’ll do 
things.” 

“Artists always want money, don’t they?” 

“I’ve got a hundred and twenty pounds a 
year of my own. My guardians tell me I’m 
to have it when I come of age. That will be 
enough to begin with.” 


1 6 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“Ah, I’m rich / 5 said Maisie. “I’ve got 
three hundred a year all my own when I’m 
twenty-one. That’s why Mrs. Jennett is 
kinder to me than she is to you. I wish, 
though, that I had somebody that belonged to 
me, — just a father or a mother.” 

“You belong to me,” said Dick, “forever 
and ever.” 

“Yes, we belong — forever. It’s very nice.” 
She squeezed his arm. The kindly darkness 
hid them both, and, emboldened because he 
could only just see the profile of Maisie’s 
cheek with the long lashes veiling the grey 
eyes, Dick at the front door delivered himself 
of the words he had been boggling over for 
the last two hours. 

“And I — love you, Maisie,” he said, in a 
whisper that seemed to him to ring across the 
world, — the world that he would to-morrow 
or next day set out to conquer. 

There was a scene, not, for the sake of dis- 
cipline, to be reported, when Mrs. Jennett 
would have fallen upon him, first for dis- 
graceful unpunctuality, and secondly for 
nearly killing himself with a forbidden 
weapon. 

“I was playing with it, and it went off by 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 17 


itself,” said Dick, when the powder-pocked 
cheek could no longer be hidden, “but if you 
think you’re going to lick me you’re wrong. 
You are never going to touch me again. Sit 
down and give me my tea. You can’t cheat us 
out of that, anyhow.” 

Mrs. Jennett gasped and became livid. 
Maisie said nothing, but encouraged Dick 
with her eyes, and he behaved abominably all 
that evening. Mrs. Jennett prophesied an im- 
mediate judgment of Providence and a de- 
scent into Tophet later, but Dick walked in 
Paradise and would not hear. Only when he 
was going to bed Mrs. Jennett recovered and 
asserted herself. He had bidden Maisie 
good-night with down-dropped eyes and from 
a distance. 

“If you aren’t a gentleman you might try 
to behave like one,” said Mrs. Jennett, spite- 
fully. “You’ve been quarreling with Maisie 
again.” 

This meant that the usual good-night kiss 
had been omitted. Maisie, white to the lips, 
thrust her cheek forward with a fine air of in- 
difference, and was duly pecked by Dick, who 
tramped out of the room red as fire. That 
night he dreamed a wild dream. He had won 
all the world and brought it to Maisie in a 


18 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


cartridge-box, but she turned it over with her 
foot, and, instead of saying, “Thank you,” 
she cried — 

“Where is the grass collar you promised 
for Amomma? Oh, how selfish you are!” 


CHAPTER II 


Then we brought the lances down, then the bugles blew, 
When we went to Kandahar, ridin’ two an’ two, 
Ridin', ridin’, ridin’, two an’ two, 
Ta-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra, 

All the way to Kandahar, ridin’ two an’ two, 

— Barrack-Room Ballad. 

“I’m not angry with the British public, but 
I wish we had a few thousand of them scat- 
tered among these rocks. They wouldn’t be 
in such a hurry to get at their morning papers 
then. Can’t you imagine the regulation 
householder — Lover of Justice, Constant 
Reader, Paterfamilias, and all that lot — friz- 
zling on hot gravel?” 

“With a blue veil over his head, and his 
clothes in strips. Has any man here a needle? 
I’ve got a piece of sugar-sack.” 

“I’ll lend you a packing-needle for six 
square inches of it then. Both my knees are 
worn through.” 

“Why not six square acres, while you’re 
about it ? But lend me the needle, and I’ll see 
what I can do with the selvage. I don’t think 

19 


20 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


there’s enough to protect my royal body from 
the cold blast as it is. What are you doing 
with that everlasting sketch-book of yours, 
Dick?” 

“Study of our Special Correspondent re- 
pairing his wardrobe,” said Dick, gravely, as 
the other man kicked off a pair of sorely-worn 
riding breeches and began to fit a square of 
coarse canvas over the most obvious open 
space. He grunted disconsolately as the vast- 
ness of the void developed itself. 

“Sugar-bags, indeed! Hi! you pilpt-man 
there! lend me all the sails of that whale-boat.” 

A fez-crowned head bobbed up in the stern- 
sheets, divided itself into exact halves with 
one flashing grin, and bobbed down again. 
The man of the tattered breeches, clad only 
in a Norfolk jacket and a grey flannel shirt, 
went on with his clumsy sewing, while Dick 
chuckled over the sketch. 

Some twenty whale-boats were nuzzling a 
sand-bank which was dotted with English sol- 
diery of half a dozen corps, bathing or wash- 
ing their clothes. A heap of boat-rollers, 
commissariat-boxes, sugar-bags, and flour- 
and small-arm ammunition cases showed 
where one of the whale-boats had been com- 
pelled to unload hastily; and a regimental car- 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


21 


penter was swearing aloud as he tried, on a 
wholly insufficient allowance of white lead, to 
plaster up the sun-parched gaping seams of 
the boat herself. 

“First the bloomin’ rudder snaps,” said he 
to the world in general ; “then the mast goes ; 
an’ then, s’ ’elp me, when she can’t do nothin’ 
else, she opens ’erself out like a cock-eyed 
Chinese lotus.” 

“Exactly the case with my breeches, who- 
ever you are,” said the tailor, without looking 
up. “Dick, I wonder when I shall see a de- 
cent shop again.” 

There was no answer, save the incessant an- 
gry murmur of the Nile as it raced round a 
basalt-walled bend and foamed across a rock- 
ridge half a mile up-stream. It was as though 
the brown weight of the river would drive the 
white men back to their own country. The 
indescribable scent of Nile mud in the air told 
that the stream was falling and that the next 
few miles would be no light thing for the 
whale-boats to over-pass. The desert ran 
down almost to the banks, where among grey, 
red, and black hillocks, a camel-corps was en- 
camped. No man dared even for a day lose 
touch of the slow-moving boats; there had 
been no fighting for weeks past, and through- 


22 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


out all that time the Nile had never spared 
them. Rapid had followed rapid, rock rock, 
and island-group island-group, till the rank 
and file had long since lost all count of direc- 
tion and very nearly of time. They were 
moving somewhere, they did not know why, 
to do something, they did not know what. Be- 
fore them lay the Nile, and at the other end 
of it was one Gordon, fighting for the dear 
life, in a town called Khartoum. There were 
columns of British troops in the desert, or in 
one of the many deserts; there were columns 
on the river; there were yet more columns 
waiting to embark on the river; there were 
fresh drafts waiting at Assioot and Assuan; 
there were lies and rumors running over the 
face of the hopeless land from Suakin to the 
Sixth Cataract, and men supposed generally 
that there must be some one in authority to 
direct the general scheme of the many move- 
ments. The duty of that particular river col- 
umn was to keep the whale-boats afloat in the 
water, to avoid trampling on the villagers’ 
crops when the gangs “tracked” the boats 
with lines thrown from midstream, to get as 
much sleep and food as was posible, and, 
above all, to press on without delay in the teeth 
of the churning Nile. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


23 


With the soldiers sweated and toiled the 
correspondents of the newspapers, and they 
were almost as ignorant as their companions. 
But it was above all things necessary that 
England at breakfast should be amused and 
thrilled and interested, whether Gordon lived 
or died, or half the Bristish army went to 
pieces in the sands. The Soudan campaign 
was a picturesque one, and lent itself to vivid 
word-painting. Now and again a “Special” 
managed to get slain, — which was not alto- 
gether a disadvantage to the paper that em- 
ployed him, — and more often the hand-to- 
hand nature of the fighting allowed of mirac- 
ulous escapes which were worth telegraphing 
home at eighteenpence the word. There were 
many correspondents with many corps and 
columns, — from the veterans who had fol- 
lowed on the heels of the cavalry that occupied 
Cairo in ’82, what time Arabi Pasha called 
himself king, who had seen the first miser- 
able work round Suakin when the sentries 
were cut up nightly and the scrub swarmed 
with spears, to youngsters jerked into the 
business at the end of a telegraph-wire to take 
the place of their betters killed or invalided. 

Among the seniors — those who knew every 
shift and change in the perplexing postal ar- 


24 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


rangements, the value of the seediest, weediest 
Egyptian garron offered for sale in Cairo or 
Alexandria, who could talk a telegraph clerk 
into amiability and soothe the ruffled vanity 
of a newly-appointed staff-officer when press 
regulations became burdensome — was the 
man in the flannel shirt, the black-browed 
Torpenhow. He represented the Central 
Southern Syndicate in the campaign, as he 
had represented it in the Egyptian war, and 
elsewhere. The syndicate did not concern it- 
self greatly with criticisms of attack and the 
like. It supplied the masses, and all it de- 
manded was picturesqueness and abundance 
of detail; for there is more joy in England 
over a soldier who insubordinately steps out 
of square to rescue a comrade than over 
twenty generals slaving even to baldness at 
the gross details of transport and commissa- 
riat. 

He had met at Suakin a young man, sitting 
on the edge of a recently-abandoned redoubt 
about the size of a hat-box, sketching a clump 
of shell-torn bodies on the gravel plain. 

“What are you for?” said Torpenhow. 
The greeting of the correspondent is that of 
the commercial traveler on the road. 

“My own hand,” said the young man, with- 
out looking up. “Have you any tobacco?” 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 25 


Torpenhow waited till the sketch was fin- 
ished, and when he had looked at it said,” 
“What’s your business here?” 

“Nothing; there was a row, so I came. I’m 
supposed to be doing something down at the 
painting-slips among the boats, or else I’m in 
charge of the condenser on one of the water- 
ships. I’ve forgotten which.” 

“You’ve cheek enough to build a redoubt 
with,” said Torpenhow, and took stock of the 
new acquaintance. “Do you always draw 
like that?” 

The young man produced more sketches. 
“Row on a Chinese pig-boat,” said he, senten- 
tiously, showing them one after another. — 
“Chief mate dirked by a comprador. — Junk 
ashore off Hakodate. — Somali muleteer being 
flogged. — Star-shell bursting over camp at 
Berbera. — Slave-dhow being chased round 
Tajurrah Bay. — Soldier lying dead in the 
moonlight outside Suakin, — throat cut by 
Fuzzies.” 

“H’m!” said Torpenhow, “can’t say I care 
for Verestchagin-and-water myself, but 
there’s no accounting for tastes. Doing any- 
thing now, are you ?” 

“No. I’m amusing myself here.” 

Torpenhow looked at the aching desolation 


26 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


of the place. “ ’Faith, you’ve queer notions 
of amusement. ’Got any money?” 

“Enough to go on with. Look here: do 
you want me to do war-work?” 

“I don’t. My syndicate may, though. You 
can draw more than a little, and I don’t sup- 
pose you care much what you get, do you?” 

“Not this time. I want my chance first.” 

Torpenhow looked at the sketches again, 
and nodded. “Yes, you’re right to take your 
first chance when you can get it.” 

He rode away swiftly through the Gate of 
the Two War-Ships, rattled across the cause- 
way into the town, and wired to his syndicate, 
“Got man here, picture-work. Good and 
cheap. Shall I arrange. Will do letterpress 
with sketches.” 

The man on the redoubt sat swinging his 
legs and murmuring, “I knew the chance 
would come, sooner or later. By Gad, they’ll 
have to sweat for it if I come through this 
business alive!” 

In the evening Torpenhow was able to an- 
nounce to his friend that the Central Southern 
Agency was willing to take him on trial, pay- 
ing expenses for three months. “And, by the 
way, what’s your name?” said Torpenhow. 

“Heldar. Do they give me a free hand?” 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 27 


“They’ve taken you on chance. You must 
justify the choice. You’d better stick to me. 
I’m going up-country with a column, and I’ll 
do what I can for you. Give me some of 
your sketches taken here, and I’ll send ’em 
along.” To himself he said, “That’s the best 
bargain the Central Southern has ever made; 
and they got me cheaply enough.” 

So it came to pass that, after some pur- 
chase of horse-flesh and arrangements finan- 
cial and political, Dick was made free of the 
New and Honorable Fraternity of War Corre- 
spondents, who all possess the inalienable 
right of doing as much work as they can and 
getting as much for it as Providence and their 
owners shall please. To these things are 
added in time, if the brother be worthy, the 
power of glib speech that neither man nor 
woman can resist when a meal or a bed is in 
question, the eye of a horse-coper, the skill of 
a cook, the constitution of a bullock, the di- 
gestion of an ostrich, and an infinite adapta- 
bility to all circumstances. But many die be- 
fore they attain to this degree, and the past- 
masters in the craft appear for the most part 
in dress-clothes when they are in England, 
and thus their glory is hidden from the multi- 
tude. 


28 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


Dick followed Torpenhow wherever the 
latter’s fancy chose to lead him, and between 
the two they managed to accomplish some 
work that almost satisfied themselves. It was 
not an easy life in any way, and under its in- 
fluence the two were drawn very closely to- 
gether, for they ate from the same dish, they 
shared the same water-bottle, and, most bind- 
ing tie of all, their mails went of! together. 
It was Dick who managed to make gloriously 
drunk a telegraph-clerk in a palm hut far be- 
yond the Second Cataract, and, while the man 
lay in bliss on the floor, possessed himself of 
some laboriously acquired exclusive informa- 
tion, forwarded by a confiding correspondent 
of an opposition syndicate, made a careful du- 
plicate of the matter, and brought the result 
to Torpenhow, who said that all was fair in 
love or war correspondence and built an ex- 
cellent descriptive article from his rival’s riot- 
ous waste of words. It was Torpenhow who 
— but the tale of their adventures, together 
and apart, from Philae to the waste wilderness 
of Herawi and Muella, would fill many books. 
They had been penned into a square side by 
side, in deadly fear of being shot by over-ex- 
cited soldiers; they had fought with baggage- 
camels in the chill dawn; they had jogged 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 29 


along in silence under blinding sun on inde- 
fatigable little Egyptian horses; and they had 
floundered on the shallows of the Nile when 
the whale-boat in which they had found a 
berth chose to hit a hidden rock and rip out 
half her bottom-planks. 

Now they were sitting on the sand-bank, 
and the whale-boats were bringing up the re- 
mainder of the column. 

“Yes,” said Torpenhow, as he put the last 
rude stitches into his over-long-neglected 
gear, “it has been a beautiful business.” 

“The patch or the campaign?” said Dick. 
“Don’t think much of either, myself.” 

“You want the Euryalus brought up above 
the Third Cataract, don’t you? and eighty- 
one-ton guns at Jakdul? Now, I’m quite sat- 
isfied with my breeches.” He turned round 
gravely to exhibit himself, after the manner 
of a clown. 

“It’s very pretty. Specially the lettering on 
the sack. G. B. T. Government Bullock 
Train. That’s a sack from India.” 

“It’s my initials, — Gilbert Belling Torpen- 
how. I stole the cloth on purpose. What the 
mischief are the camel-corps doing yonder?” 
Torpenhow shaded his eyes and looked across 
the scrub-strewn gravel. 


30 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


A bugle blew furiously, and the men on the 
bank hurried to their arms and accoutrements. 

“ ‘Pisan soldiery surprised while bathing,’ ” 
remarked Dick, calmly. “D’you remember 
the picture? It’s by Michael Angelo; all be- 
ginners copy it. That scrub’s alive with en- 
emy.” 

The camel-corps on the bank yelled to the 
infantry to come to them, and a hoarse shout- 
ing down the river showed that the remainder 
of the column had wind of the trouble and 
was hastening to take share in it. As swiftly 
as a reach of still water is crisped by the wind, 
the rock-strewn ridges and scrub-topped hills 
were troubled and alive with armed men. 
Mercifully, it occurred to these to stand far 
off for a time, to shout and gesticulate joy- 
ously. One man even delivered himself of a 
long story. The camel-corps did not fire. 
They were only too glad of a little breathing- 
space, until some sort of square could be 
formed. The men on the sand-bank ran to 
their side; and the whale-boats, as they toiled 
up within shouting distance, were thrust into 
the nearest bank and emptied of all save the 
sick and a few men to guard them. The 
Arab orator ceased his outcries, and his 
friends howled. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


31 


“They look like the Mahdi’s men,” said 
Torpenhow, elbowing himself into the crush 
of the square; “but what thousands of ’em 
there are! The tribes hereabout aren’t against 
us, I know.” 

“Then the Mahdi’s taken another town,” 
said Dick, “and set all these yelping devils 
free to chaw us up. Lend us your glass.” 

“Our scouts should have told us of this. 
We’ve been trapped,” said a subaltern. 
“Aren’t the camel-guns ever going to begin? 
Hurry up, you men!” 

There was no need for any order. The 
men flung themselves panting against the sides 
of the square, for they had good reason to 
know that whoso was left outside when the 
fighting began would very probably die in an 
extremely unpleasant fashion. The little hun- 
dred-and-fifty-pound camel-guns posted at one 
corner of the square opened the ball as the 
square moved forward by its right to get pos- 
session of a knoll of rising ground. All had 
fought in this manner many times before, and 
there was no novelty in the entertainment; al- 
ways the same hot and stifling formation, the 
smell of dust and leather, the same boltlike 
rush of the enemy, the same pressure on the 
weakest side of the square, the few minutes of 


32 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


desperate hand-to-hand scuffle, and then the si- 
lence of the desert, broken only by the yells 
of those whom the handful of cavalry at- 
tempted to pursue. They had grown careless, 
the camel-guns spoke at intervals, and the 
square slouched forward amid the protests of 
the camels. Then came the attack of three 
thousand men who had not learned from 
books that it is impossible for troops in close 
order to attack against breech-loading fire. A 
few dropping shots heralded their approach, 
and a few horsemen led, but the bulk of the 
force was naked humanity, mad with rage, 
and armed with the spear and the sword. 
The instinct of the desert, where there is al- 
ways much war, told them that the right 
flank of the square was the weakest, for they 
swung clear of the front. The camel-guns 
shelled them as they passed, and opened for 
an instant lanes through their midst, most like 
those quick-closing vistas in a Kentish hop- 
garden seen when the train races by at full 
speed; and the infantry fire, held till the op- 
portune moment, dropped them in close- 
packed hundreds. No civilized troops in the 
world could have endured the hell through 
which they came, the living leaping high to 
avoid the dying who clutched at their heels, 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


33 


the wounded cursing and staggering forward, 
till they fell — a torrent black as the sliding 
water above a mill-dam — full on the right 
flank of the square. Then the line of the 
dusty troops and the faint blue desert sky 
overhead went out in rolling smoke, and the 
little stones on the heated ground and the 
tinder-dry clumps of scrub became matters of 
surpassing interest, for men measured their 
agonized retreat and recovery by these things, 
counting mechanically and hewing their way 
back to chosen pebble and branch. There was 
no semblance of any concerted fighting. For 
aught the men knew, the enemy might be at- 
tempting all four sides of the square at once. 
Their business was to destroy what lay in 
front of them, to bayonet in the back those 
who passed over them, and, dying, to drag 
down the slayer till he could be knocked on 
the head by some avenging gun-butt. Dick 
waited quietly with Torpenhow and a young 
doctor till the stress became unendurable. 
There was no hope of attending to the wound- 
ed till the attack was repulsed, so the three 
moved forward gingerly toward the weakest 
side. There was a rush from without, the 
short hough-hough of the stabbing spears, and 
a man on a horse, followed by thirty or forty 


34 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


others, dashed through, yelling and hacking. 
The right flank of the square sucked in after 
them, and the other sides sent help. The 
wounded, who knew that they had but a few 
hours more to live, caught at the enemy’s feet 
and brought them down, or, staggering to a 
discarded rifle, fired blindly into the scuffle that 
raged in the centre of the square. Dick was 
conscious that somebody had cut him violently 
across his helmet, that he had fired his revolver 
into a black, foam-flecked face which forth- 
with ceased to bear any resemblance to a face, 
and that Torpenhow had gone down under an 
Arab whom he had tried to “collar low,” and 
was turning over and over with his captive, 
feeling for the man’s eyes. The doctor was 
jabbing at a venture with a bayonet, and a 
helmetless soldier was firing over Dick’s shoul- 
der: the flying grains of powder stung his 
cheek. It was to Torpenhow that Dick turned 
by instinct. The representative of the Central 
Southern Syndicate had shaken himself clear 
of his enemy, and rose, wiping his thumb on 
his trousers. The Arab, both hands to his 
forehead, screamed aloud, then snatched up his 
spear and rushed at Torpenhow, who was pant- 
ing under shelter of Dick’s revolver. Dick 
fired twice, and the man droped limply. His 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 35 


upturned face lacked one eye. The musketry- 
fire redoubled, but cheers mingled with it. The 
rush had failed, and the enemy were flying. If 
the heart of the square were shambles, the 
ground beyond was a butcher’s shop. Dick 
thrust his way forward between the maddened 
men. The remnant of the enemy were re- 
tiring, as the few — -the very few — English cav- 
alry rode down the laggards. 

Beyond the lines of the dead, a broad blood- 
stained Arab spear cast aside in the retreat lay 
across a stump of scrub, and beyond this again 
the illimitable dark levels of the desert. The 
sun caught the steel and turned it into a savage 
red disc. Some one behind him was saying, 
“Ah, get away, you brute!” Dick raised his 
revolver and pointed toward the desert. His 
eye was held by the red splash in the distance, 
and the clamor about him seemed to die down 
to a very far-away whisper, like the whisper 
of a level sea. There was the revolver and 
the red light, . . . and the voice of some 

one scaring something away, exactly as had 
fallen somewhere before, — probably in a past 
life. Dick waited for what should happen af- 
terward. Something seemed to crack inside 
his head, and for an instant he stood in the 
dark, — a darkness that stung. He fired at 


36 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


random, and the bullet went out across the 
desert as he muttered, “Spoiled my aim. There 
aren’t any more cartridges. We shall have 
to run home.” He put his hand to his head 
and brought it away, covered with blood. 

“Old man, you’re cut rather badly,” said 
Torpenhow. “I owe you something for this 
business. Thanks. Stand up! I say, you 
can’t be ill here.” 

Dick had fallen stiffly on Torpenhow’s shoul- 
der, and was muttering something about aim- 
ing low and to the left. Then he sank to the 
ground and was silent. Torpenhow dragged 
him off to a doctor and sat down to work out 
an account of what he was pleased to call “a 
sanguinary battle, in which our arms had ac- 
quitted themselves,” etc. 

All that night, when the troops were en- 
camped by the whale-boats, a black figure 
danced in the strong moonlight on the sand-bar 
and shouted that Khartoum the accursed one 
was dead, — was dead, — was dead, — that two 
steamers were rock-staked on the Nile outside 
the city, and that of all their crews there re- 
mained not one; and Khartoum was dead, — 
was dead, — was dead ! 

But Torpenhow took no heed. He was 
watching Dick, who was calling aloud to the 
restless Nile for Maisie, — and again Maisie! 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 37 


“Behold a phenomenon,” said Torpenhow, 
rearranging the blanket. “Here is a man, pre- 
sumably human, who mentions the name of 
one woman only. And I’ve seen a good deal of 
delirium, too. — Dick, here’s some fizzy drink.” 

“Thank you, Maisie,” said Dick. 


CHAPTER III 


So he thinks he shall take to the sea again 
For one more cruise with his buccaneers, 

>To singe the beard of the King of Spain, 

And capture another Dean of Jaen 
And sell him in Algiers. 

— A Dutch Picture. 

The Soudan campaign and Dick’s broken 
head had been some months ended and mended, 
and the Central Southern Syndicate had paid 
Dick a certain sum on account for work done, 
which work they were careful to assure him 
was not altogether up to their standard. Dick 
heaved the letter into the Nile at Cairo, cashed 
the draft in the same town, and bade a warm 
farewell to Torpenhow at the station. 

“I am going to lie up for a while and rest,” 
said Torpenhow, “I don’t know where I shall 
live in London, but if God brings us to meet, 
we shall meet. Are you staying here on the 
off-chance of another row? There will be 
none till the Southern Soudan is reoccupied by 
our troops. Mark that. Good-bye ; bless you ; 
come back when your money’s spent ; and give 
me your address.” 


38 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 39 


Dick loitered in Cairo, Alexandria, Ismailia, 
Port Said, — especially Port Said. There is in- 
iquity in many parts of the world, and vice 
in all, but the concentrated essence of all the 
iniquities and all the vices in all the continents 
finds itself at Port Said. And through the 
heart of that sand-bordered hell, where the 
mirage flickers day long above the Bitter 
Lakes, move, if you will only wait, most of the 
men and women you have known in this life. 
Dick established himself in quarters more riot- 
ous than respectable. He spent his evenings on 
the quay, and boarded many ships, and saw 
very many friends, — gracious Englishwomen 
with whom he had talked not too wisely in 
the veranda of Shepheard’s Hotel, hurrying 
war correspondents, skippers of the contract 
troop-ships employed in the campaign, army 
officers by ‘the score, and others of less reput- 
able trades. He had choice of all the races 
of the East and West for studies, and the ad- 
vantage of seeing his subjects under the in- 
fluence of strong excitement, at the gaming- 
tables, saloons, dancing-hells, and elsewhere. 
For recreation there was the straight vista of 
the Canal, the blazing sands, the procession 
of shipping, and the white hospitals where the 
English soldiers lay. He strove to set down 


40 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


in black and white and color all that Providence 
sent him, and when that supply was ended 
sought about for fresh material, it was a fas- 
cinating employment, but it ran away with his 
money, and he had drawn in advance the hun- 
dred and twenty pounds to which he was en- 
titled yearly. “Now I shall have to work and 
starve!” thought he, and was addressing him- 
self to this new fate when a mysterious tele- 
gram arrived from Torpenhow in England, 
which said, “Come back, quick; you have 
caught on. Come.” 

A large smile overspread his face. “So 
soon! that’s good hearing,” said he to him- 
self. “There will be an orgie to-night. I’ll 
stand or fall by my luck. ’Faith, it’s time 
it came!” He deposited half of his funds in 
the hands of his well-known friends Monsieur 
and Madame Binat, and ordered himself a 
Zanzibar dance of the finest. Monsieur Binat 
was shaking with drink, but Madame smiled 
sympathetically — 

“Monsieur needs a chair, of course, and of 
course Monsieur will sketch : Monsieur amuses 
himself strangely.” 

Binat raised a blue-white face from a cot in 
the inner room. “I understand,” he quavered. 
“We all know Monsieur. Monsieur is an ar- 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 41 


tist, as I have been.” Dick nodded. “In the 
end,” said Binat, with gravity, “Monsieur will 
descend alive into hell, as I have descended.” 
And he laughed. 

“You must come to the dance, too,” said 
Dick; “I shall want you.” 

“For my face? I knew it would be so. For 
my face? My God! and for my degradation 
so tremendous! I will not. Take him away. 
He is a devil. Or at least do thou, Celeste, de- 
mand of him more.” The excellent Binat be- 
gan to kick and scream. 

“All things are for sale in Port Said,” said 
Madame. “If my husband comes it will be 
so much more. Eh, ’ow you call — ’alf a sover- 
eign.” 

The money was paid, and the mad dance 
was held at night in a walled courtyard at the 
back of Madame Binat’s house. The lady her- 
self, in faded mauve silk always about to slide 
from her yellow shoulders, played the piano, 
and to the tin-pot music of a Western waltz 
the naked Zanzibari girls danced furiously by 
the light of the kerosene lamps. Binat sat upon 
a chair and stared with eyes that saw nothing, 
till the whirl of the dance and the clang of the 
rattling piano stole into the drink that took 
the place of blood in his veins, and his face 


42 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


glistened. Dick took him by the chin brutally 
and turned that face to the light. Madame 
Binat looked over her shoulder and smiled with 
many teeth. Dick leaned against the wall 
and sketched for an hour, till the kerosene 
lamps began to smell, and the girls threw them- 
selves panting on the hard-beaten ground. 
Then he shut his book with a snap and moved 
away, Binat plucking feebly at his elbow. 
“Show me,” he whimpered. “I too was once 
an artist, even I !” Dick showed him the rough 
sketch. “Am I that?” he screamed. “Will 
you take that away with you and show all 
the world that it is I, — Binat?” He moaned 
and wept. 

“Monsieur has paid for all,” said Madame. 
“To the pleasure of seeing Monsieur again.” 

The courtyard gate shut, and Dick hurried 
up the sandy street to the nearest gambling- 
hell, where he was well known. “If the luck 
holds, it’s an omen; if I lose, I must stay here.” 
He placed his money picturesquely about the 
board, hardly daring to look at what he did; 
The luck held. Three turns of the wheel left 
him richer by twenty pounds, and he went 
down to the shipping to make friends with the 
captain of a decayed cargo-steamer, who land- 
ed him in London with fewer pounds in his 
pocket than he cared to think about. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 43 


A thin grey fog hung over the city, and the 
streets were very cold; for summer was in 
England. 

“It’s a cheerful wilderness, and it hasn’t the 
knack of altering much,” Dick thought, as he 
tramped from the Docks westward. “Now, 
what must I do?” 

The packed houses gave no answer. Dick 
looked down the long lightless streets and at 
the appalling rush of traffic. “Oh, you rabbit- 
hutches !” said he, addressing a row of highly- 
respectable semi-detached residences. “Do you 
know what you’ve got to do later on? You 
have to supply me with menservants and maid- 
servants,” — here he smacked his lips, — “and 
the peculiar treasure of kings. Meantime I’ll 
get clothes and boots, and presently I will re- 
turn and trample on you.” He stepped for- 
ward energetically; he saw that one of his 
shoes was burst at the side. As he stooped to 
make investigations, a man jostled him into 
the gutter. “All right,” he said. “That’s an- 
other nick in the score. I’ll jostle you later 
on.” 

Good clothes and boots are not cheap, and 
Dick left his last shop with the certainty that 
he would be respectably arrayed for a time, 
but with only fifty shillings in his pocket. He 


44 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


returned to streets by the Docks, and lodged 
himself in one room, where the sheets on the 
bed were almost audibly marked in case of 
theft, and where nobody seemed to go to bed 
at all. When his clothes arrived he sought 
the Central Southern Syndicate for Torpen- 
how’s address, affd got it, with the intimation 
that there was still some money owing to him. 

“How much ?” said Dick, as one who habitu- 
ally dealt in millions. 

“Between thirty and forty pounds. If it 
would be any convenience to you, of course we 
could let you have it at once; but we usually 
settle accounts monthly.” 

“If I show that I want anything now, I’m 
lost,” he said to himself. “All I need I’ll take 
later on.” Then, aloud, “It’s hardly worth 
while; and I’m going into the country for a 
month, too. Wait till I come back, and I’ll 
see about it.” 

“But we trust, Mr. Heldar, that you do not 
intend to sever your connection with us ?” 

Dick’s business in life was the study of faces, 
and he watched the speaker keenly. “That 
man means something,” he said. “I’ll do no 
business till I’ve seen Torpenhow. There’s a 
big deal coming.” So he departed, making no 
promises, to his one little room by the Docks. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 45 


And that day was the seventh of the month, 
and that month, he reckoned with awful dis- 
tinctness, had thirty -one days in it! 

It is not easy for a man of catholic tastes 
and healthy appetites to exist for twenty-four 
days on fifty shillings. Nor is it cheering to 
begin the experiment alone in all the lone- 
liness of London. Dick paid seven shillings 
a week for his lodging, which left him rather 
less than a shilling a day for food and drink. 
Naturally, his first purchase was of the ma- 
terials of his craft ; he had been without them 
too long. Half a day’s investigation and com- 
parison brought him to the conclusion that sau- 
sages and mashed potatoes, two-pence a plate, 
were the best food. Now, sausages once or 
twice a week for breakfast are not unpleasant. 
As lunch, even, with mashed potatoes, they 
become monotonous. As dinner they are im- 
pertinent. At the end of three days Dick 
loathed sausages, and, going forth, pawned 
his watch to revel on sheep’s head, which is 
not as cheap as it looks, owing to the bones 
and the gravy. Then he returned to sausage 
and mashed potatoes. Then he confined him- 
self entirely to mashed potatoes for a day, and 
was unhappy because of pain in his inside. 
Then he pawned his waistcoat and his tie, and 


46 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


thought regretfully of money thrown away in 
times past. There are few things more edify- 
ing unto Art than the actual belly-pinch of 
hunger, and Dick in his few walks abroad — 
he did not care for exercise; it raised desires 
that could not be satisfied — found himself di- 
viding mankind into two classes, — those who 
looked as if they might give him something to 
eat, and those who looked otherwise. “I never 
knew what I had to learn about the human face 
before,” he thought; and, as a reward for his 
humility, Providence caused a cab-driver at 
a sausage-shop where Dick fed that night to 
leave half-eaten a great chunk of bread. Dick 
took it, — would have fought all the world for 
its possession, — and it cheered him. 

The month dragged through at last, and, 
nearly prancing with impatience, he went to 
draw his money. Then he hastened to Tor- 
penhow’s address and smelt the smell of cook- 
ing meats all along the corridors of the cham- 
bers. Torpenhow was on the top floor, and 
Dick burst into his room, to be received with 
a hug which nearly cracked his ribs, as Tor- 
penhow dragged him to the light and spoke 
of twenty different things in the same breath. 

“But you’re looking tucked up,” he con- 
cluded. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 47 


“Got anything to eat?” said Dick, his eye 
roaming round the room. 

“I shall be having breakfast in a minute. 
What do you say to sausages?” 

“No, anything but sausages! Torp, I’ve 
been starving on that accursed horse-flesh for 
thirty days and thirty nights.” 

“Now, what lunacy has been your latest?” 

Dick spoke of the last few weeks with un- 
bridled speech. Then he opened his coat; 
there was no waistcoat below. “I ran it fine, 
awfully fine, but I’ve just scraped through.” 

“You haven’t much sense, but you’ve got a 
backbone, anyhow. Eat, and talk afterward.” 
Dick fell upon eggs and bacon and gorged till 
he could gorge no more. Torpenhow handed 
him a filled pipe, and he smoked as men smoke 
who for three weeks have been deprived of 
good tobacco. 

“Ouf!” said he. “That’s heavenly! Well?” 

“Why in the world didn’t you come to me ?” 

“Couldn’t; I owe you too much already, 
old man. Besides, I had a sort of superstition 
that this temporary starvation — that’s what it 
was, and it hurt — would bring me more luck 
later. It’s over and done with now, and none 
of the syndicate know how hard up I was. 
Fire away. What’s the exact state of affairs 
as regards myself?” 


48 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“You had my wire? You’ve caught on 
here. People like your work immensely. I 
don’t know why, but they do. They say you 
have a fresh touch and a new way of drawing 
things. And, because they’re chiefly home- 
bred English, they say you have insight. You’re 
wanted by half a dozen papers; you’re wanted 
to illustrate books.” 

Dick grunted scornfully. 

“You’re wanted to work up your smalAr 
sketches and sell them to the dealers. They 
seem to think the money sunk in you is a good 
investment. Good Lord ! who can account for 
the fathomless folly of the public?” 

“They’re a remarkably sensible people.” 

“They are subject to fits, if that’s what you 
mean; and you happen to be the object of the 
latest fit among those who are interested in 
what they call Art. Just now you’re a fashion, 
a phenomenon, or whatever you please. I ap- 
peared to be the only person who knew any- 
thing about you here, and I have been show- 
ing the most useful men a few of the sketches 
you gave me from time to time. Those coming 
after your work on the Central Southern Syn- 
dicate appear to have done your business. 
You’re in luck.” 

“Huh ! call it luck ! Do call it luck, when a 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 49 


man has been kicking about the world like a 
dog, waiting for it to come ! I’ll luck ’em later 
on. I want a place to work in first.” 

“Come here,” said Torpenhow, crossing the 
landing. “This place is a big boxroom really, 
but it will do for you. There’s your skylight, 
or your north light, or whatever window you 
call it, and plenty of room to thrash about in, 
and a bedroom beyond. What more do you 
need?” 

“Good enough,” said Dick, looking round 
the large room that took up a third of a top 
story in the rickety chambers overlooking the 
Thames. A pale yellow sun shone through the 
skylight and showed the much dirt of the place. 
Three steps led from the door to the landing, 
and three more to Torpenhow’s room. The 
well of the staircase disappeared into dark- 
ness, pricked by tiny gaslets, and there were 
sounds of men talking and doors slamming 
seven flights below, in the warm gloom. 

“Do they give you a free hand here?” said 
Dick, cautiously. He was Ishmael enough to 
know the value of liberty. 

“Anything you like: latch-keys and license 
unlimited. We are permanent tenants for 
the most part here. ’Tisn’t a place I would 
recommend for a Young Men’s Christian As- 


50 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


sociation, but it will serve. I took these rooms 
for you when I wired.” 

“You’re a great deal too kind, old man.” 

“You didn’t suppose you were going away 
from me, did you?” Torpenhow put his hand 
on Dick’s shoulder, and the two walked up 
and down the room, henceforward to be called 
the studio, in sweet and silent communion. 
They heard rapping at Torpenhow’s door. 
“That’s some ruffian come up for a drink,” said 
Torpenhow; and he raised his voice cheerily. 
There entered no one more ruffianly than a 
portly middle-aged gentleman in a satin-faced 
frock-coat. His lips were parted and pale, and 
there were deep pouches under the eyes. 

“Weak heart,” said Dick to himself, and, 
as he shook hands, “very weak heart. His 
pulse is shaking his fingers.” 

The man introduced himself as the head of 
the Central Southern Syndicate and “one of 
the most ardent admirers of your work, Mr. 
Heldar. I assure you, in the name of the syn- 
dicate, that we are immensely indebted to 
you; and I trust, Mr. Heldar, you won’t for- 
get that we were largely instrumental in bring- 
ing you before the public.” He panted be- 
cause of the seven flights of stairs. 

Dick glanced at Torpenhow, whose left eye- 
lid lay for a moment dead on his cheek. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 51 


“I shan’t forget,” said Dick, every instinct 
of defence roused in him. “You’ve paid me 
so well that I couldn’t, you know. By the 
way, when I am settled in this place I should 
like to send and get my sketches. There must 
be nearly a hundred and fifty of them with 
you.” 

“That is er — is what I came to speak about. 
I fear we can’t allow it exactly, Mr. Heldar. In 
the absence of any specified agreement, the 
sketches are our property, of course.” 

“Do you mean to say that you are going 
to keep them?” 

“Yes; and we hope to have your help, on 
your own terms, Mr. Heldar, to assist us in 
arranging a little exhibition, which, backed by 
our name and the influence we naturally com- 
mand among the press, should be of material 
service to you. Sketches such as yours” — 

“Belong to me. You engaged me by wire, 
you paid me the lowest rates you dared. You 
can’t mean to keep them! Good God alive, 
man, they’re all I’ve got in the world !” 

Torpenhow watched Dick’s face and whis- 
tled. 

Dick walked up and down, thinking. He 
saw the whole of his little stock in trade, the 
first weapon of his equipment, annexed at the 


52 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


outset of his campaign by an elderly gentle- 
man whose name Dick had not caught aright, 
who said that he represented a syndicate, which 
was a thing for which Dick had not the least 
reverence. The injustice of the proceedings 
did not much move him ; he had seen the strong 
hand prevail too often in other places to be 
squeamish over the moral aspects of right and 
wrong. But he ardently desired the blood of 
the gentleman in the frock-coat, and when he 
spoke again it was with a strained sweetness 
that Torpenhow knew well for the beginning 
of strife. 

“Forgive me, sir, but you have no — no 
younger man who can arrange this business 
with me?” 

“I speak for the syndicate. I see no reason 
for a third party to” — 

“You will in a minute. Be good enough to 
give back my sketches.” 

The man stared blankly at Dick, and then 
at Torpenhow, who was leaning aginst the 
wall. He was not used to ex-employees who 
ordered him to be good enough to do things. 

“Yes, it is rather a cold-blooded steal,” 
said Torpenhow, critically; “but I’m afraid, I 
am very much afraid, you’ve struck the wrong 
man. Be careful, Dick: remember, this isn’t 
the Soudan.” 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


53 


“Considering what services the syndicate 
have done you in putting your name before 
the world” — 

This was not a fortunate remark ; it remind- 
ed Dick of certain vagrant years lived out in 
loneliness and strife and unsatisfied desires. 
The memory did not contrast well with the 
prosperous gentleman who proposed to enjoy 
the fruit of those years. 

“I don’t know quite what to do with you,” 
began Dick, meditatively. “Of course you’re 
a thief, and you ought to be half killed, but 
in your case you’d probably die. I don’t want 
you dead on this floor, and, besides, it’s un- 
lucky just as one’s moving in. Don’t hit, sir; 
you’ll only excite yourself.” He put one hand 
on the man’s forearm and ran the other down 
the plump body beneath the coat. “My good- 
ness!” said he to Torpenhow, “and this grey 
oaf dares to be a thief ! I have seen an Esneh 
camel-driver have the black hide taken off his 
body in strips for stealing half a pound of wet 
dates, and he was as tough as whipcord. This 
thing’s soft all over — like a woman.” 

There are few things more poignantly hu- 
miliating than being handled by a man who 
does not intend to strike. The head of the syn- 
dicate began to breathe heavily. Dick walked 


54 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


round him, pawing him, as a cat paws a soft 
hearth-rug. Then he traced with his forefinger 
the leaden pouches underneath the eyes, and 
shook his head. “You were going to steal 
my things, — mine, mine, mine ! — you, who 
don’t know when you may die. Write a note 
to your office, — you say you’re the head of it, 
— and order them to give Torpenhow my 
sketches, — every one of them. Wait a min- 
ute: your hand’s shaking. Now!” He thrust 
a pocketbook before him. The note was writ- 
ten. Torpenhow took it and departed with- 
out a word, while Dick walked round and 
round the spellbound captive, giving him such 
advice as he conceived best for the welfare of 
his soul. When Torpenhow returned with a 
gigantic portfolio, he heard Dick say, almost 
soothingly, “Now, I hope this will be a lesson 
to you; and if you worry me when I have set- 
tled down to work with any nonsense about 
actions for assault, believe me, I’ll catch you 
and manhandle you, and you’ll die. You 
haven’t very long to live, anyhow. Go ! Imshi, 
Vootsak , — get out!” The man departed, stag- 
gering and dazed. Dick drew a long breath : 
“Phew! what a lawless lot these people are! 
The first thing a poor orphan meets is gang 
robbery, organized burglary! Think of the 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 55 


hideous blackness of that man’s mind! Are 
my sketches all right, Torp?” 

“Yes ; one hundred and forty-seven of them. 
Well, I must say, Dick, you’ve begun well.” 

“He was interfering with me. It only meant 
a few pounds to him, but it was everything to 
me. I don’t think he’ll bring an action. I 
gave him some medical advice gratis about 
the state of his body. It was cheap at the lit- 
tle flurry it cost him. Now, let’s look at my 
things.” 

Two minutes later Dick had thrown himself 
down on the floor and was deep in the portfolio, 
chuckling lovingly as he turned the drawings 
over and thought of the price at which they 
had been bought. 

The afternoon was well advanced when Tor- 
penhow came to the door and saw Dick danc- 
ing a wild saraband under the skylight. 

“I builded better than I knew, Torp,” he 
said, without stopping the dance. “They’re 
good ! They’re damned good ! They’ll go like 
flame! I shall have an exhibition of them on 
my own brazen hook. And that man would 
have cheated me out of it ! Do you know that 
I’m sorry now that I didn’t actually hit him?” 

“Go out,” said Torpenhow, — “go out and 
pray to be delivered from the sin of arrogance, 


56 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


which you never will be. Bring your things 
up from whatever place you’re staying in, and 
we’ll try to make this barn a little more ship- 
shape.” 

“And then — oh, then,” said Dick, still cap- 
ering, “we will spoil the Egyptians!” 


CHAPTER IV 


The wolf-cup at even lay hid in the corn, 

When the smoke of the cooking hung grey: 

He knew where the doe made a couch for her fawn. 

And he looked to his strength for his prey. 

But the moon swept the smoke-wreaths away. 

And he turned from his meal in the villager’s close, 
And he bayed to the moon as she rose . — In Seonee. 

“Well, and how does success taste?” said 
Torpenhow, some three months later. He had 
just returned to chambers after a holiday in 
the country. 

“Good,” said Dick, as he sat licking his lips 
before the easel in the studio. “I want more, 
— heaps more. The lean years have passed, 
and I approve of these fat ones.” 

“Be careful, old man. That way lies bad 
work.” 

Torpenhow was sprawling in a long chair 
with a small fox-terrier asleep on his chest, 
while Dick was preparing a canvas. A dais, 
a background, and a lay-figure were the only 
fixed objects in the place. They rose from a 
wreck of oddments that began with felt-cov- 

57 


58 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


ered water-bottles, belts, and regimental badges 
and ended with a small bale of second-hand 
uniforms and a stand of mixed arms. The 
mark of muddy feet on the dais showed that 
a military model had just gone away. The 
watery autumn sunlight was failing, and shad- 
ows sat in the corners of the studio. 

“Yes,” said Dick, deliberately, “I like the 
power ; I like the fun ; I like the fuss ; and above 
all I like the money. I almost* like the people 
who make the fuss and pay the money. Al- 
most. But they’re a queer gang, — an amaz- 
ingly queer gang!” 

“They have been good enough to you, at 
any rate. That tin-pot exhibition of your 
sketches must have paid. Did you see that the 
papers called it the 'Wild Work Show’ ?” 

“Never mind. I sold every shred of canvas 
I wanted to ; and, on my word, I believe it was 
because they believed I was a self-taught flag- 
stone artist. I should have got better prices 
if I had worked my things on wool or scratched 
them on camel-bone instead of using mere 
black and white and color. Verily, they are 
a queer gang, these people. Limited isn’t the 
word to describe ’em. I met a fellow the other 
day who told me that it was impossible that 
shadows on white sand should be blue, — ul- 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 59 


tramarine, — as they are. I found out, later, 
that that man had been as far as Brighton 
beach; but he knew all about Art, confound 
him. He gave me a lecture on it, and recom- 
mended me to go to school to learn technique. 
I wonder what old Kami would have said to 
that.” 

“When were you under Kami, man of 
extraordinary beginnings ?” 

“I studied with him for two years in Paris. 
He taught by personal magnetism. All he 
ever said was, ‘Continues, mes enfants / and 
you had to make the best you could of that. 
He had a divine touch, and he knew something 
about color. Kami used to dream color; I 
swear he could never have seen the genuine 
article; but he evolved it; and it was good.” 

“Recollect some of those views in the Sou- 
dan?” said Torpenhow, with a provoking 
drawl. 

Dick squirmed in his place. “Don’t! It 
makes me want to get out there again. What 
color that was! Opal and umber and amber 
and claret and brick-red and sulphur — cocka- 
too-crest sulphur — against brown, with a nig- 
ger-black rock sticking up in the middle of it 
all, and a decorative frieze of camels festoon- 
ing in front of a pure pale turquoise sky.” He 


6o THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


began to walk up and down. “And yet, you 
know, if you try to give these people the thing 
as God gave it keyed down to their compre- 
hension and according to the powers He has 
given you” — 

“Modest man! Goon.” 

“Half a dozen epicene young pagans who 
haven’t even been to Algiers will tell you, first, 
that your notion is borrowed, and, secondly, 
that it isn’t Art.” 

“This comes of my leaving town for a 
month. Dickie, you’ve been promenading 
among the toy-shops and hearing people talk.” 

“I couldn’t help it,” said Dick, penitently- 
“You weren’t here, and it was lonely these 
long evenings. A man can’t work forever.” 

“A man might have gone to a pub, and got 
decently drunk.” 

“I wish I had; but I foregathered with 
some men of sorts. They said they were ar- 
tists, and I knew some of them could draw, — 
but they wouldn’t draw. They gave me tea, — 
tea at five in the afternoon ! — and talked about 
Art and the state of their souls. As if their 
souls mattered. I’ve heard more about Art 
and seen less of her in the last six months 
than in the whole of my life. Do you remem- 
ber Cassavetti, who worked for some conti- 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 6 r 


nental syndicate, out with the desert column? 
He was a regular Christmas-tree of contrap- 
tions when he took the field in full fig, with 
his water-bottle, lanyard, revolver, writing- 
case, housewife, gig-lamps, and the Lord 
knows what all. He used to fiddle about with 
’em and show us how they worked; but he 
never seemed to do much except fudge his 
reports from the Nilghai. See ?” 

“Dear old Nilghai! He’s in town, fatter 
than ever. He ought to be up here this ev- 
ening. I see the comparison perfectly. You 
should have kept clear of all that man-millin- 
ery. Serves you right; and I hope it will un- 
settle your mind.” 

“It won’t. It has taught me what Art — 
holy sacred Art — means.” 

“Give ’em what they know, and when you’ve 
done it once do it again.” Dick dragged for- 
ward a canvas laid face to the wall. “Here’s 
a sample of real Art. It’s going to be a facsim- 
ile reproduction for a weekly. I called it ‘His 
Last Shot.’ It’s worked up from the little 
water-color I made outside El Maghrib. Well, 
I lured my model, a beautiful rifleman, up here 
with drink ; I drored him, and I redrored him, 
and I tredrored him, and I made him a flushed, 
disheveled, bedevilled scallawag, with his hel- 


62 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


met at the back of his head, and the living fear 
of death in his eye, and the blood oozing out 
of a cut over his ankle-bone. He wasn’t pretty 
but he was all soldier and very much man.” 

“Once more, modest child !” 

Dick laughed. “Well, it’s only to you I’m 
talking. I did him just as well as I knew how, 
making allowance for the slickness of oils. 
Then the art-manager of that abandoned pa- 
per said that his subscribers wouldn’t like it. 
It was brutal and coarse and violent, — man 
being naturally gentle when he’s fighting for 
his life! They wanted something more rest- 
ful, with a little more color. I could have said 
a good deal, but you might as well talk to a 
sheep as an art-manager. I took my ’Last 
Shot’ back. Behold the result ! I put him in- 
to a lovely red coat without a speck on it. That 
is Art. I polished his boots, — observe the high 
light on the toe. That is Art. I cleaned his 
rifle, — rifles are always clean on sendee — be- 
cause that is Art. I pipeclayed his helmet, — 
pipeclay is always used on active service, and 
is indispensable to Art. I shaved his chin, I 
washed his hands, and gave him an air of fat- 
ted peace. Result, military tailor’s pattern- 
plate. Price, thank Heaven, twice as much 
as for the first sketch, which was moderately 
decent.” 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 63 


“And do you suppose you’re going to give 
that thing out as your work?” 

“Why not ? I did it. Alone I did it, in the 
interests of sacred, home-bred Art and Dicken- 
son's Weekly ” 

Torpenhow smoked in silence for a while. 
Then came the verdict, delivered from rolling 
clouds: “If you were only a mass of blather- 
ing vanity, Dick, I wouldn’t mind, — I’d let you 
go to the deuce on your own mahl-stick; but 
when I consider what you are to me, and when 
I find that to vanity you add the twopenny- 
halfpenny pique of a twelve-year-old girl, then 
I bestir myself in your behalf. Thus !” 

The canvas ripped as Torpenhow’s booted 
foot shot through it and the terrier jumped 
down, thinking rats were about. 

“If you have any bad language to use, use 
it. You have not. I continue. You are an 
idiot, because no man born of woman is strong 
enough to take liberties with his public, even 
though they be — which they ain’t — all you say 
they are.” 

“But they don’t know any better. What 
can you expect from creatures born and bred 
in this light?” Dick pointed to the yellow 
fog. “If they want furniture-polish let them 
have furniture-polish, so long as they pay for 


64 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


it. They are only men and women. You talk 
as though they were gods.” . 

“That sounds very fine but it has nothing to 
do with the case. They are the people you 
have to work for whether you like it or not. 
They are your masters. Don’t be deceived, 
Dickie, you aren’t strong enough to trifle with 
them, — or with yourself, which is more im- 
portant. Moreover, — Come back, Binkie : 
that red daub isn’t going anywhere, — unless 
you take precious good care, you will fall un- 
der the damnation of the check-book, and 
that’s worse than death. You will get drunk 
— you’re half drunk already — on easily-ac- 
quired money. For that money and your own 
infernal vanity you are willing to deliberately 
turn out bad work. You’ll do quite enough bad 
work without knowing it. And, Dickie, as I 
love you and as I know you love me, I am not 
going to let you cut off your nose to spite your 
face for all the gold in England. That’s set- 
tled. Now swear.” 

“Don’t know,” said Dick. “I’ve been try- 
ing to make myself angry, but I can’t, you’re 
so abominably reasonable. There will be a 
row on Dickenson's Weekly, I fancy.” 

“Why the Dickenson do you want to work 
on a weekly paper? It’s slow bleeding of 
power.” 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 65 


“It brings in the very desirable dollars,” 
said Dick, his hands in pockets. 

Torpenhow watched him with large con- 
tempt. “Why I thought it was a man!” said 
he. “It’s a child.” 

“No, it isn’t,” said Dick, wheeling quickly. 
“You’ve no notion what the certainty of cash 
means to a man who has always wanted it 
badly. Nothing will pay me for some of my 
life’s joys; on that Chinese pig-boat for in- 
stance, when we ate bread and jam for every 
meal, because Ho- Wang wouldn’t allow us 
anything better, and it all tasted of pig, — Chi- 
nese pig. I’ve worked for this, I’ve sweated 
and starved for this, line on line and month 
after month. And now I’ve got it I am going 
to make the most of it while it lasts. Let them 
pay — they’ve no knowledge.” 

“What does Your Majesty please to want? 
You can’t smoke more than you do; you won’t 
drink; you’re a gross feeder; and you dress 
in the dark, by the look of you. You wouldn’t 
keep a horse the other day when I suggested, 
because, you said, it might fall lame, and 
whenever you cross the street you take a han- 
som. Even you are not foolish enough to 
suppose that theatres and all the live things 
you can buy thereabouts mean Life. 'What 
earthly need have you for money?” 


66 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“It’s there, bless its golden heart,” said 
Dick. “It’s there all the time. Providence 
has sent me nuts while I have teeth to crack 
’em with. I haven’t yet found the nut I wish 
to crack, but I’m keeping my teeth filed. Per- 
haps some day you and I will go for a walk 
round the wide earth.” 

“With no work to do, nobody to worry us, 
and nobody to compete with? You would be 
unfit to speak to in a week. Besides, I 
shouldn’t go. I don’t care to profit by the 
price of a man’s soul, — for that’s what it 
would mean. Dick, it’s no use arguing. 
You’re a fool.” 

“Don’t see it. When I was on that Chinese 
pig-boat, our captain got enormous credit for 
saving about twenty-five thousand very sea- 
sick little pigs, when our old tramp of a 
steamer fell foul of a timber-junk. Now, tak- 
ing those pigs as a parallel” — 

“Oh, confound your parallels! Whenever 
I try to improve your soul, you always drag in 
some irrelevant anecdote from your very 
shady past. Pigs aren’t the British public; 
credit on the high seas isn’t credit here: and 
self-respect is self-respect all the world over. 
Go out for a walk and try to catch some self- 
respect. And, I say, if the Nilghai comes up 
this evening can I show him your diggings ?” 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 67 


“Surely. You’ll be asking whether you 
must knock at my door, next.” And Dick de- 
parted, to take counsel with himself in the rap- 
idly-gathering London fog. 

Half an hour after he had left, the Nilghai 
labored up the staircase. He was the chiefest, 
as he was the hugest, of the war correspond- 
ents, and his experiences dated from the birth 
of the needle-gun. Saving only his ally, 
Keneu the Great War Eagle, there was no 
man mightier in the craft than he, and he al- 
ways opened his conversation with the news 
that there would be trouble in the Balkans in 
the spring. Torpenhow laughed as he entered. 

“Never mind the trouble in the Balkans. 
Those little states are always screeching. 
You’ve heard about Dick’s luck?” 

“Yes; he has been called up to notoriety, 
hasn’t he ? I hope you keep him properly hum- 
ble. He wants suppressing from time to 
time.” 

“He does. He’s beginning to take liberties 
with what he thinks is his reputation.” 

“Already! By Jove, he has cheek! I don’t 
know about his reputation, but he’ll come a 
cropper if he tries that sort of thing.” 

“So I told him. I don’t think he believes 
it.” 


68 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“They never do when they first start off. 
What’s that wreck on the ground there?” 

“Specimen of his latest impertinence.” Tor- 
penhow thrust the torn edges of the canvas to- 
gether and showed the well-groomed picture 
to the Nilghai, who looked at it for a moment 
and whistled. 

“It’s a chromo,” said he, — “a chromo-lithol- 
eo-margarine fake! What possessed him to 
do it ? And yet how thoroughly he has caught 
the note that catches a public who think with 
their boots and read with their elbows ! The 
cold-blooded insolence of the work almost 
saves it ; but he mustn’t go on with this. 
Hasn’t he been praised and cockered up too 
much? You know these people here have no 
sense of proportion. They’ll call him a second 
Detaille and a third-hand Meissonier while his 
fashion lasts. It’s windy diet for a colt.” 

“I don’t think it affects Dick much. You 
might as well call a young wolf a lion and ex- 
pect him to take the compliment in exchange 
for a shin-bone. Dick’s soul is in the bank. 
He’s working for cash.” 

“Now he has thrown up war work, I sup- 
pose he doesn’t see that the obligations of the 
service are just the same, only the proprietors 
are changed.” 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 69 


“How should he know? He thinks he is 
his own master.” 

“Does he? I could undeceive him for his 
good, if there’s any virtue in print. He wants 
the whip-lash.” 

“Lay it on with science, then. I’d flay him 
myself, but I like him too much.” 

“I’ve no scruples. He had the audacity to 
try to cut me out with a woman at Cairo once. 
I forgot that, but I remember now.” 

“Did he cut you out ?” 

“You’ll see when I have dealt with him. 
But, after all, what’s the good? Leave him 
alone and he’ll come home, if he has any stuff 
in him, dragging or wagging his tail behind 
him. There’s more in a week of life than in a 
lively weekly. None the less I’ll slate him. 
I’ll slate him ponderously in the Cataclysm.” 

“Good luck to you; but I fancy nothing 
short of a crowbar would make Dick wince. 
His soul seems to have been fired before we 
came across him. He’s intensely suspicious 
and utterly lawless.” 

“Matter of temper,” said the Nilghai. “It’s 
the same with horses. Some you wallop and 
they work, some you wallop and they jib, and 
some you wallop and they go out for a walk 
with their hands in their pockets.” 


70 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“That’s exactly what Dick has done,” said 
Torpenhow. “Wait till he comes back. In 
the meantime, you can begin your slating here. 
I’ll show you some of his last and worst work 
in his studio.” 

Dick had instinctively sought running water 
for a comfort to his mood of mind. He was 
leaning over the Embankment wall, watching 
the rush of the Thames through the arches of 
Westminster Bridge. He began by thinking 
of Torpenhow’s advice, but, as of custom, lost 
himself in the study of the faces flocking past. 
Some had death written on their features, and 
Dick marveled that they could laugh. Others, 
clumsy and coarse-built for the most part, were 
alight with love; others were merely drawn 
and lined with work ; but there was something, 
Dick knew, to be made out of them all. The 
poor at least should suffer that he might learn, 
and the rich should pay for the output of his 
learning. Thus his credit in the world and his 
cash balance at the bank would be increased. 
So much the better for him. He had suffered. 
Now he would take toll of the ills of others. 

The fog was driven apart for a moment, and 
the sun shone, a blood-red wafer, on the water. 
Dick watched the spot till he heard the voice 
of the tide between the piers die down like the 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 71 


wash of the sea at low tide. A girl hard 
pressed by her lover shouted shamelessly, “Ah, 
get away, you beast!” and a shift of the 
same wind that had opened the fog drove 
across Dick’s face the black smoke of a river- 
steamer at her berth below the wall. He was 
blinded for the moment, then spun round and 
found himself face to face with — Maisie. 

There was no mistaking. The years had 
turned the child to a woman, but they had not 
altered the dark-grey eyes, the thin scarlet 
lips, or the firmly modeled mouth and chin; 
and, that all should be as it was of old, she 
wore a closely-fitting grey dress. 

Since the human soul is finite and not in the 
least under its own command, Dick, advanc- 
ing, said “Halloo!” after the manner of 
schoolboys, and Maisie answered, “Oh, Dick, 
is that you?” Then, against his will, and be- 
fore the brain newly released from considera- 
tions of the cash balance had time to dictate to 
the nerves, every pulse of Dick’s body throbbed 
furiously and his palate dried in his mouth. 
The fog shut down again, and Maisie’s face 
was pearl-white through it. No word was 
spoken, but Dick fell into step at her side, and 
the two paced the Embankment together, 
keeping the step as perfectly as in their after- 


72 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


noon excursions to the mud-flats. Then Dick, 
a little hoarsely — 

“What has happened to Amomma?” 

“He died, Dick. Not cartridges; over-eat- 
ing. He was always greedy. Isn’t it funny ?” 

“Yes. No. Do you mean Amomma?” 

“Ye — es. No. This. Where have you 
come from?” 

“Over there.” He pointed eastward through 
the fog. “And you ?” 

“Oh, I’m in the north, — the black north, 
across all the Park. I am very busy.” 

“What do you do?” 

“I paint a great deal. That’s all I have to 
do.” 

“Why, what’s happened? You had three 
hundred a year.” 

“I have that still. I am painting; that’s 

all.” 

“Are you alone, then?” 

“There’s a girl living with me. Don’t walk 
so fast, Dick; you’re out of step.” 

“Then you noticed it too?” 

“Of course I did. You’re always out of 
step.” 

“So I am. I’m sorry. You went on with 
the painting?” 

“Of course. I said I should. I was at the 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 73 


Slade, then at Merton’s in St. John’s Wood, 
the big studio, then I pepper-potted, — I mean 
I went to the National, — and now I’m work- 
ing under Kami.” 

“But Kami is in Paris surely?” 

“No; he has his teaching studio at Vitry- 
sur-Mame. I work with him in the summer, 
and I live in London in the winter. I’m a 
householder.” 

“Do you sell much?” 

“Now and again, but not often. There is 
my ’bus. I must take it or lose half an hour. 
Good-bye, Dick.” 

“Good-bye, Maisie. Won’t you tell me 
where you live? I must see you again; and 
perhaps I could help you. I — I paint a little 
myself.” 

“I may be in the Park to-morrow, if there 
is no working light. I walk from the Marble 
Arch down and back again; that is my little 
excursion. But of course I shall see you 
again.” She stepped into the omnibus and 
was swallowed up by the fog. 

“Well — I — am — damned!” exclaimed Dick, 
and returned to the chambers. 

Torpenhow and the Nilghai found him sit- 
ting on the steps of the studio door, repeating 
the phrase with an awful gravity. 


74 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“You’ll be more damned when I’ve done 
with you,” said the Nilghai, upheaving his 
bulk from behind Torpenhow’s shoulder and 
waving a sheaf of half-dry manuscript. 
“Dick, it is of common report that you are suf- 
fering from swelled head.” 

“Halloo, Nilghai. Back again? How are 
the Balkans and all the little Balkans? One 
side of your face is out of drawing, as usual.” 

“Never mind that. I am commissioned to 
smite you in print. Torpenhow refuses from 
false delicacy. I’ve been overhauling the pot- 
boilers in your studio. They are simply dis- 
graceful.” 

“Oho ! that’s it, is it ? If you think you can 
slate me, you’re wrong. You can only de- 
scribe and you need as much room to turn in, 
on paper, as a P. and O. cargo-boat. But con- 
tinue, and be swift. I’m going to bed.” 

“H’m! h’m! h’m! The first part only deals 
with your pictures. Here’s the peroration: 
‘For work done without conviction, for power 
wasted on trivialities, for labor expended with 
levity for the deliberate purpose of winning 
f he easy applause of a fashion-driven pub- 
lic’ 

“That’s ’His Last Shot,’ second edition. 
Go on.” 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 75 


“ 'public, there remains but one end, — 

the oblivion that is preceded by toleration and 
cenotaphed with contempt. From that fate 
Mr. Heldar has yet to prove himself out of 
danger/ ” 

“Wow — wow — wow — wow — wow!” said 
Dick, profanely. “It’s a clumsy ending and 
vile journalese, but it’s quite true. And yet 
— he sprang to his feet and snatched at the 
manuscript, — "you scarred, deboshed, battered 
old gladiator ! you’re sent out when a war be- 
gins, to minister to the blind, brutal British 
public’s bestial thirst for blood. They have no 
arenas now, but they must have special corre- 
spondents. You’re a fat gladiator who comes 
up through a trapdoor and talks of what he’s 
seen. You stand on precisely the same level as 
an energetic bishop, an affable actress, a dev- 
astating cyclone, or — mine own sweet self. 
And you presume to lecture me about my 
work! Nilghai, if it were worth while I’d 
caricature you in four papers !” 

The Nilghai winced. He had not thought 
of this. 

"As it is, I shall take this stuff and tear it 
small — so !” The manuscript fluttered in slips 
down the dark well of the staircase. "Go 
home, Nilghai,” said Dick ; "go home to your 


76 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


lonely little bed, and leave me in peace. I am 
about to turn in till to-morrow.” 

“Why, it isn’t seven yet!” said Torpenhow, 
with amazement. 

“It shall be two in the morning, if I choose,” 
said Dick, backing to the studio door. “I go 
to grapple with a serious crisis, and I shan’t 
want any dinner.” 

The door shut and was locked. 

“What can you do with a man like that?” 
said the Nilghai. 

“Leave him alone. He’s as mad as a hat- 
ter.” 

At eleven there was kicking on the studio 
door. “Is the Nilghai with you still?” said a 
voice from within. “Then tell him he might 
have condensed the whole of his lumbering 
nonsense into an epigram: ‘Only the free are 
bond, and only the bond are free.’ Tell him 
he’s an idiot, Torp, and tell him I’m another.” 

“All right. Come out and have supper. 
You’re smoking on an empty stomach.” 

There was no answer. 


CHAPTER V 


“I have a thousand men,” said he, 

“To wait upon my will, 

And towers nine upon the Tyne, 

And three upon the Till.” 

“And what care I for your men,” said she, 

“Or towers from Tyne to Till, 

Sith you must go with me,” she said, 

“To wait upon my mill?” 

— Sir Hoggie and the Fairies. 

Next morning Torpenhow found Dick sunk 
in deepest repose of tobacco. 

“Well, madman, how d’you feel 

“I don’t know. I’m trying to find out.” 

“You had much better do some work.” 

“Maybe; but I’m in no hurry. I’ve made a 
discovery. Torp, there’s too much Ego in my 
Cosmos.” 

“Not really! Is this revelation due to my 
lectures, or the Nilghai’s?” 

“It came to me suddenly, all on my own ac- 
count. Much too much Ego ; and now I’m go- 
ing to work.” 

He turned over a few half-finished sketches, 
drummed on a new canvas, cleaned three 

77 


78 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


brushes, set Binkie to bite the toes of the lay- 
figure, rattled through his collection of arms 
and accoutrements, and then went out ab- 
ruptly, declaring that he had done enough for 
the day. 

“This is positively indecent,” said Torpen- 
how, “and the first time that Dick has ever 
broken up a light morning. Perhaps he has 
found out that he has a soul, or an artistic 
temperament, or something equally valuable. 
That comes of leaving him alone for a month. 
Perhaps he has been going out of evenings. I 
must look to this.” He rang for the baldhead- 
ed old housekeeper, whom nothing could as- 
tonish or annoy. 

“Beeton, did Mr. Heldar dine out at all 
while I was out of town?” 

“Never laid ’is dress-clothes out once, sir, 
all the time. Mostly ’e dined in ; but ’e brought 
some most remarkable fancy young gentlemen 
up ’ere after theatres once or twice. Remark- 
able fancy they was. You gentlemen on the 
top floor does very much as you likes, but it do 
seem to me, sir, droppin’ a walkin’-stick down 
five flights o’ stairs an’ then goin’ down four 
abreast to pick it up again at half-past two in 
the mornin’ singin’, ‘Bring back the whiskey, 
Willie, darling,’ — not once, or twice, but scores 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 79 


o’ times, — isn’t charity to the other tenants. 
What I say is, ‘Do as you would be done by.’ 
That’s my motto.” 

“Of course! of course! I’m afraid the top 
floor isn’t the quietest in the house.” 

“I make no complaints, sir. I have spoke to 
Mr. Heldar friendly, an’ he laughed, an’ did 
me a picture of the missis that is as good as a 
colored print. It ’asn’t the ’igh shine of a pho- 
tograph, but what I say is, ‘Never look a gift- 
’orse in the mouth.’ Mr. Heldar’s dress- 
clothes ’aven’t been on him for weeks.” 

“Then it’s all right,” said Torpenhow to 
himself. “Orgies are healthy, and Dick has. 
a head of his own, but when it comes to women 
making eyes I’m not so certain. — Binkie, never 
you be a man, little dorglums. They’re con- 
trary brutes, and they do things without any 
reason.” 

Dick had turned northward across the Park, 
but he was walking in the spirit on the mud- 
flats with Maisie. He laughed aloud as he 
remembered the day when he had decked Am- 
omma’s horns with the ham-frills, and Maisie, 
white with rage, had cuffed him. How long 
those four years seemed in review, and how 
closely Maisie was connected with every hour 
of them! Storm across the sea, and Maisie 


8o THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


in a grey dress on the beach, sweeping her 
drenched hair out of her eyes and laughing at 
the homeward race of the fishing-smacks; hot 
sunshine on the mud-flats, and Maisie sniffing 
scornfully, with her chin in the air ; Maisie fly- 
ing before the wind that threshed the foreshore 
and drove the sand like small shot about her 
ears; Maisie, very composed and independent, 
telling lies to Mrs. Jennett while Dick support- 
ed her with coarser perjuries; Maisie picking 
her way delicately from stone to stone, a pistol 
in her hand and her teeth firm-set ; and Maisie 
in a grey dress sitting on the grass between the 
mouth of a cannon and a nodding yellow sea- 
poppy. The pictures passed before him one 
by one, and the last stayed the longest. Dick 
was perfectly happy with a quiet peace that was 
as new to his mind as it was foreign to his ex- 
perience. It never occurred to him that there 
might be other calls upon his time than loafing 
across the Park in the forenoon. 

“There’s a good working light now,” he 
said, watching his shadow placidly. “Some 
poor devil ought to be grateful for this. And 
there’s Maisie.” 

She was walking toward him from the Mar- 
ble Arch, and he saw that no mannerism of 
her gait had been changed. It was good to find 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 81 


her still Maisie, and, so to speak, his next-door 
neighbor. No greeting passed between them, 
because there had been none in the old days. 

“What are. you doing out of your studio at 
this hour?” said Dick, as one who was entit- 
led to ask. 

“Idling. Just idling. I got angry with a 
chin and scraped it out. Then I left it in a 
little heap of paint-chips and came away.” 

“I know what palette-knifing means. What 
was the piccy?” 

“A fancy head that wouldn’t come right, — 
horrid thing !” 

“I don’t like working over scraped paint 
when I’m doing flesh. The grain comes up 
woolly as the paint dries.” 

“Not if you scrape properly.” Maisie waved 
her hand to illustrate her methods. There 
was a dab of paint on the white cuff. Dick 
laughed. 

“You’re as untidy as ever.” 

“That comes well from you. Look at your 
own cuff.” 

“By Jove, yes! It’s worse than yours. I 
don’t think we’ve much altered in anything. 
Let’s see, though.” He looked at Maisie criti- 
cally. The pale blue haze of an autumn day 
crept between the tree-trunks of the Park and 


82 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


made a back-ground for the grey dress, the 
black velvet toque above the black hair, and 
the resolute profile. 

“No, there’s nothing changed. How good 
it is! D’you remember when I fastened your 
hair into the snap of a hand-bag?” 

Maisie nodded, with a twinkle in her eyes, 
and turned her full face to Dick. 

“Wait a minute,” said he. “That mouth is 
down in the corners a little. Who’s been wor^ 
rying you, Maisie?” ‘ 

“No one but myself. I never seem to get 
on with my work, and yet I try hard enough, 
and Kami says” — 

“ ‘Continues, mesdemoiselles. Continues 
toujours , mes enfants Kami is depressing. I 
beg your pardon.” 

“Yes, that’s what he says. He told me last 
summer that I was doing better and he’d let 
me exhibit this year.” 

“Not in this place, surely ?” 

“Of course not. The Salon.” 

“You fly high.” 

“I’ve been beating my wings long enough. 
Where do you exhibit, Dick?” 

“I don’t exhibit. I sell.” 

“What is your line, then ?” 

“Haven’t you heard?” Dick’s eyes opened. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 83 


Was this thing possible? He cast about for 
some means of conviction. They were not far 
from the Marble Arch. “Come up Oxford 
street a little and I’ll show you.” 

A small knot of people stood round a print- 
shop that Dick knew well. “Some reproduc- 
tion of my work inside,” he said, with sup- 
pressed triumph. Never before had success 
tasted so sweet upon the tongue. “You see 
the sort of things I paint. D’you like it?” 

Maisie looked at the wild whirling rush of 
a field-battery going into action under fire. 
Two artillerymen stood behind her in the 
crowd. 

“They’ve chucked the off lead-’orse,” said 
one to the other. “E’s tore up awful, but 
they’re makin’ good time with the others. 
That lead-driver drives better nor you, Tom. 
See ’ow cunnin’ ’e’s nursin’ ’is ’orse.” 

“Number Three’ll be off the limber, next 
jolt,” was the answer. 

“No ’e won’t. See ’ow ’is foot’s braced 
against the iron? ’E’s all right.” 

Dick watched Maisie’s face and swelled with 
joy — fine, rank, vulgar triumph. She was 
more interested in the little crowd than in the 
picture. That was something that she could 
understand. 


84 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“And I wanted it so ! Oh ! I did want it so !” 
she said at last, under her breath. 

“Me, — all me!” said Dick, placidly. “Look 
at their faces. It hits ’em. They don’t know 
what makes their eyes and mouths open; but 
I know. And I know my work’s right.” 

“Yes. I see. Oh, what a thing to have come 
to one !” 

“Come to one, indeed ! I had to go out and 
look for it. What do you think?” 

“I call it success. Tell me how you got it.” 

They returned to the Park, and Dick deliv- 
ered himself of the saga of his own doings, 
with all the arrogance of a young man speak- 
ing to a woman. From the beginning he told 
the tale, the I — I — I’s flashing through the 
records as telegraph-poles fly past the traveler. 
Maisie listened and nodded her head. The 
histories of strife and privation did not move 
her a hair’s-breadth. At the end of each canto 
he would conclude, “And that gave me some 
notion of handling color,” or light, or what- 
ever it might be that he had set out to pursue 
and understand. He led her breathless across 
half the world, speaking as he had never spok- 
en in his life before. And in the flood-tide of 
his exaltation there came upon him a great de- 
sire to pick up this maiden who nodded her 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 85 


head and said, “I understand. Go on,” — to 
pick her up and carry her away with him, 
because she was Maisie, and because she un- 
derstood, and because she was his right, and 
a woman to be desired above all women. 

Then he checked himself abruptly. “And so 
I took all I wanted,” he said, “and had to fight 
for it. Now you tell.” 

Maisie’s tale was almost as grey as her 
dress. It covered years of patient toil backed 
by savage pride that would not be broken 
though dealers laughed, and fogs delayed work 
and girls in other studios were painfully polite. 
It had a few bright spots, in pictures accepted 
at provincial exhibitions, but it wound up with 
the old-repeated wail, “And so you see, Dick, 
I had no success, though I worked so hard.” 

Then pity filled Dick. Even thus had Maisie 
spoken when she could not hit the breakwater, 
half an hour before she had kissed him. And 
that had happened yesterday. 

“Never mind,” he said. “I’ll tell you some- 
thing, if you’ll believe it.” The words were 
shaping themselves of their own accord. “The 
whole thing, lock, stock and barrel, isn’t worth 
one big yellow sea-poppy below Fort Keeling.” 

Maisie flushed a little. “It’s all very well for 
you to talk, but you’ve had the success and I 
haven’t.” 


86 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“Let me talk, then. I know you’ll under- 
stand. Maisie, dear, it sounds a bit absurd, but 
those ten years never existed, and I’ve come 
back again. It really is just the same. Can’t 
you see? You’re alone now and I’m alone. 
What’s the use of worrying? Come to me 
instead, darling.” 

Maisie poked the gravel with her parasol. 
They were sitting on a bench. “I understand,” 
she said slowly. “But I’ve got my work to 
do, and I must do it.” 

“Do it with me, then, dear. I won’t inter- 
rupt.” 

“No, I couldn’t. It’s my work, — mine, — 
mine, — mine! I’ve been alone all my life in 
myself, and I’m not going to belong to any- 
body except myself. I remember things as 
well as you do, but that doesn’t count. We 
were babies then, and we didn’t know what 
was before us. Dick, don’t be selfish. ( I think 
I see my way to a little success next year. 
Don’t take it away from me.” 

“I beg your pardon, darling. It’s my fault 
for speaking stupidly. I can’t expect you to 
throw up all your life just because I’m back. 
I’ll go to my own place and wait a little.” 

“But, Dick, I don’t want you to — go — out 
of — my life, now you’ve just come back.” 





Copyright, 1909, by The Edinburgh Society 

















THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 8; 


“Em at your orders; forgive me.” Dick de- 
voured the troubled little face with his eyes. 
There was triumph in them, because he could 
not conceive that Maisie should refuse sooner 
or later to love him, since he loved her. 

“It’s wrong of me,” said Maisie, more 
slowly than before; “It’s wrong and selfish; 
but, oh, Eve been so lonely! No, you misun- 
derstand. Now Eve seen you again, — it’s ab- 
surd, but I want to keep you in my life.” 

“Naturally. We belong.” 

“We don’t; but you always understood me, 
and there is so much in my work that you 
could help me in. You know things and the 
ways of doing things. You must.” 

“I do, I fancy, or else I don’t know myself. 
Then I suppose you won’t care to lose sight of 
me altogether, and you want me to help you in 
your work?” 

“Yes; but remember, Dick, nothing will 
ever come of it. That’s why I feel so selfish. 
Let things stay as they are. I do want your 
help.” 

“You shall have it. But let’s consider. I 
must see your pics first, and overhaul your 
sketches, and find out about your tendencies. 
You should see what the papers say about my 
tendencies! Then Ell give you good advice, 


88 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


and you shall paint according. Isn’t that it, 
Maisie?” 

Again there was unholy triumph in Dick’s 
eye. 

“It’s too good of you, — much too good. 
Because you are consoling yourself with what 
will never happen, and I know that, and yet I 
wish to keep you. Don’t blame me later, 
please.” 

“I’m going into the matter with my eyes 
open. Moreover, the queen can do no wrong. 
It isn’t your selfishness that impresses me. It’s 
your audacity in proposing to make use of 
me. 

“Pooh! You’re only Dick, — and a print- 
shop.” 

“Very good: that’s all I am. But, Maisie, 
you believe, don’t you, that I love you? I 
don’t want you to have any false notions about 
brothers and sisters.” 

Maisie looked up for a moment and dropped 
her eyes. 

“It’s absurd, but — I believe. I wish I 
could send you away before you get angry 
with me. But — but the girl that lives with 
me is red-haired, and an impressionist, and 
all our notions clash.” 

“So do ours, I think. Never mind. Three 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 89 


months from to-day we shall be laughing at 
this together.” 

Maisie shook her head mournfully. “I knew 
you wouldn’t understand, and it will only hurt 
you more when you find out. Look at my 
face, Dick, and tell me what you see.” 

They stood up and faced each other for a 
moment. The fog was gathering, and it stifled 
the roar of the traffic of London beyond the 
railings. Dick brought all his painfully-ac- 
quired knowledge of faces to bear on the eyes, 
mouth, and chin underneath the black velvet 
toque. 

“It’s the same Maisie, and it’s the same me,” 
he said. “We’ve both nice little wills of our 
own, and one or the other of us has to be 
broken. Now about the future. I must come 
and see your pictures some day, — I suppose 
when the red-haired girl is on the premises.” 

“Sundays are my best times. You must 
come on Sundays. There are such heaps of 
things I want to talk about and ask your ad- 
vice about. Now I must get back to work.” 

“Try to find out before next Sunday what I 
am,” said Dick. “Don’t take my word for 
anything I’ve told you. Good-bye, darling, 
and bless you.” 

Maisie stole away like a little grey mouse. 


90 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


Dick watched her till she was out of sight, but 
he did not hear her say to herself, very so- 
berly, “I’m a wretch, — a horrid, selfish wretch. 
But it’s Dick, and Dick will understand.” 

No one has yet explained what actually hap- 
pens when an irresistible force meets the im- 
movable post, though many have thought 
deeply, even as Dick thought. He tried to as- 
sure himself that Maisie would be led in a 
few weeks by his mere presence and discourse 
to a better way of thinking. Then he remem- 
bered much too distinctly her face and all that 
was written on it. 

“If I know anything of heads,” he said, 
“there’s everything in that face but love. I shall 
have to put that in myself; and that chin and 
mouth won’t be won for nothing. But she’s 
right. She knows what she wants, and she’s 
going to get it. What insolence! Me! Of 
all the people in the wide world, to use me! 
But then she’s Maisie. There’s no getting 
over that fact; and it’s good to see her again. 
Thi' business must have been simmering at 
the back of my head for years. . . .She’ll 

use me as I used Binat at Port Said. She’s 
quite right. It will hurt a little. I shall have 
to see her every Sunday,— like a yong man 
courting a housemaid. She’s sure to come 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 91 


round; and yet — that mouth isn’t a yielding 
mouth. I shall be wanting to kiss her all the 
time, and I shall have to look at her pictures, 
— I don’t even know what sort of work she 
does yet, and I shall have to talk about Art, — * 
Woman’s Art! Therefore, particularly and 
perpetually, damn all varieties of Art. It did 
me a good turn once, and now it’s in my way. 
I’ll go home and do some Art.” 

Half-way to the studio, Dick was smitten 
with a terrible thought. The figure of a soli- 
tary woman in the fog suggested it. 

“She’s all alone in London, with a red- 
haired impressionist girl, who probably has 
the digestion of an ostrich. Most red-haired 
people have. Maisie’s a bilious little body. 
They’ll eat like lone women, — meals at all 
hours, and tea with all meals. I remember 
how the students in Paris used to pig along. 
She may fall ill at any minute, and I shan’t be 
able to help. Whew! this is ten times worse 
than owning a wife.” 

Torpenhow came into the studio at dusk, 
and looked at Dick with his eyes full of the 
austere love that springs up betwen men who 
have tugged at the same oar together and are 
yoked by custom and use and the intimacies of 
toil. This is a good love, and, since it allows. 


9 2 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


and even encourages, strife, recrimination, and 
the most brutal sincerity, does not die, but in- 
creases, and is proof against any absence and 
evil conduct. 

Dick was silent after he handed Torpenhow 
the filled pipe of council. He thought of 
Maisie and her possible needs. It was a new 
thing to think of anybody but Torpenhow, 
who could think for himself. Here at last was 
an outlet for that cash balance. He could 
adorn Maisie barbarically with jewelry, — a 
thick gold necklace round that little neck, 
bracelets upon the rounded arms, and rings of 
price upon her hands, — the cool, temperate, 
ringless hands that he had taken between his 
own. It was an absurd thought, for Maisie 
would not even allow him to put one ring on 
one finger, and she would laugh at golden 
trappings. It would be better to sit with her 
quietly in the dusk, his arm round her neck 
and her face on his shoulder, as befitted hus- 
band and wife. Torpenhow’s boots creaked 
that night, and his strong voice jarred. Dick’s 
brows contracted and he murmured an evil 
word because he had taken all his success as a 
right and part payment for past discomfort, 
and now he was checked in his stride by a 
woman who admitted all the success and did 
not instantly care for him. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 93 


“I say, old man,” said Torpenhow, who had 
made one or two vain attempts at conversa- 
tion, “I haven’t put your back up by anything 
I’ve said lately, have I?” 

“You! No. How could you?” 

“Liver out of order?” 

“The truly healthy man doesn’t know he 
has a liver. I’m only a bit worried about 
things in general. I suppose it’s my soul.” 

“The truly healthy man doesn’t know he 
has a soul. What business have you with 
luxuries of that kind?” 

“It came of itself. Who’s the man that 
says that we’re all islands shouting lies to each 
other across seas of misunderstanding?” 

“He’s right, whoever he is, — except about 
the misunderstanding. I don’t think we could 
misunderstand each other.” 

The blue smoke curled back from the ceiling 
in clouds. Then Torpenhow, insinuatingly — 

“Dick, is it a woman?” 

“Be hanged if it’s anything remotely re- 
sembling a woman; and if you begin to talk 
like that, I’ll hire a red-brick studio with 
white paint trimmings, and begonias and pe- 
tunias and Blue Hungarians to play among 
three-and-sixpenny pot-palms, and I’ll mount 
all my pics in aniline-dye plush plasters, and 


94 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


I’ll invite every woman who yelps and maun- 
ders and moans over what her guide-books tell 
her is Art, and you shall receive ’em, Torp, — 
in a snuff-brown velvet coat with yellow trous- 
ers and an orange tie. You’ll like that.” 

“Too thin, Dick. A better man than you 
denied with cursing and swearing on a mem- 
orable occasion. You’ve overdone it, just as 
he did. It’s no business of mine, of course, 
but it’s comforting to think that somewhere 
under the stars there’s saving up for you a 
tremendous thrashing. Whether it’ll come 
from heaven or earth, I don’t know, but it’s 
bound to come and break you up a little. You 
want hammering” 

Dick shivered. “All right,” said he. “When 
this island is disintegrated it will call for you.” 

“I shall come round the corner and help to 
disintegrate it some more. We’re talking non- 
sense. Come along to a theatre.” 


CHAPTER VI 


“And you may lead a thousand men, 

Nor ever draw the rein, 

But ere ye lead the Faery Queen 
Twill burst your heart in twain.” 

He has slipped his foot from the stirrup-bar, 

The bridle from his hand, 

And he is bound by hand and foot 
To the Queen o’ Faery-land. 

— Sir Hoggie and the Fairies. 

Some weeks later, on a very foggy Sunday, 
Dick was returning across the Park to his 
studio. “This,” he said, “is evidently the 
thrashing that Torp meant. It hurts more 
than I expected; but the queen can do no 
wrong; and she certainly has some notion of 
drawing.” 

He had just finished a Sunday visit to 
Maisie, — always under the green eyes of the 
red-haired impressionist girl, whom he learned 
to hate at sight, — and was tingling with a 
keen sense of shame. Sunday after Sunday, 
putting on his best clothes, he had walked over 
to the untidy house north of the Park, first to 
see Maisie’s pictures, and then to criticise and 
advise upon them as he realized that they were 
95 


96 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


productions on which advice would not be 
wasted. Sunday after Sunday, and his love 
grew with each visit, he had been compelled 
to cram his heart back from between his lips 
when it prompted him to kiss Maisie several 
times and very much indeed. Sunday after 
Sunday, the head above the heart had warned 
him that Maisie was not yet attainable, and 
that it would be better to talk as connectedly 
as possible upon the mysteries of the craft that 
was all in all to her. Therefore it was his fate 
to endure weekly torture in the studio built out 
over the clammy back garden of a frail stuffy 
little villa where nothing was ever in its right 
place and nobody ever called, — to endure and 
to watch Maisie moving to and fro with the 
teacups. He abhorred tea, but, since it gave 
him a little longer time in her presence, he 
drank it devoutly, and the red-haired girl sat 
in an untidy heap and eyed him without speak- 
ing. She was always watching him. Once and 
only once, when she had left the studio, Maisie 
showed him an album that held a few poor 
cuttings from provincial papers, — the briefest 
of hurried notes on some of her pictures sent 
to outlying exhibitions. Dick stooped and 
kissed the paint-smudged thumb on the open 
page. “Oh, my love, my love,” he muttered, 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 97 


“do you value these things? Chuck ’em into 
the waste-paper basket!” 

“Not till I get something better,” said 
Maisie, shutting the book. 

Then Dick, moved by no respect for his pub- 
lic and a very deep regard for the maiden, did 
deliberately propose, in order to secure more 
of these coveted cuttings, that he should paint 
a picture which Maisie should sign. 

“That’s childish,” said Maisie, “and I didn’t 
think it of you. It must be my work. Mine, 
— mine, — mine !” 

“Go and design decorative medallions for 
rich brewers’ houses. You are thoroughly 
good at that.” Dick was sick and savage. 

“Better things than medallions, Dick,” was 
the answer, in tones that recalled a grey-eyed 
atom’s fearless speech to Mrs. Jennett. Dick 
would have abased himself utterly, but that 
the other girl trailed in. 

Next Sunday he laid at Maisie’s feet small 
gifts of pencils that could almost draw of 
themselves and colors in whose permanence he 
believed, and he was ostentatiously attentive to 
the work in hand. It demanded, among other 
things, an exposition of the faith that was in 
him. Torpenhow’s hair would have stood on 
end had he heard the fluency with which Dick 
preached his own gospel of Art. 


98 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


A month before, Dick would have been 
equally astonished; but it was Maisie’s will 
and pleasure, and he dragged his words to- 
gether to make plain to her comprehension all 
that had been hidden to himself of the whys 
and wherefores of work. There is not the 
least difficulty in doing a thing if you only 
know how to do it; the trouble is to explain 
your method. 

“I could put this right if I had a brush in 
my hand,” said Dick, despairingly, over the 
modeling of a chin that Maisie complained 
would not “look flesh,” — it was the same chin 
that she had scraped out with a palette-knife, 
— “but I find it almost impossible to teach you. 
There's a queer grim Dutch touch about your 
painting that I like; but I’ve a notion that 
you’re weak in drawing. You foreshorten as 
though you never used the model, and you’ve 
caught Kami’s pasty way of dealing with flesh 
in shadow. Then, again, though you don’t 
know it yourself, you shirk hard work. Sup- 
pose you spend some of your time on line 
alone. Line doesn’t allow of shirking. Oils 
do, and three square inches of flashy, tricky 
stuff in the corner of a pic sometimes carry a 
bad thing off, — as I know. That’s immoral. 
Do line-work for a little while, and then I can 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 99 


tell more about your powers, as old Kami used 
to say.” 

Maisie protested: she did not care for the 
pure line. 

“I know,” said Dick. “You want to do your 
fancy heads with a bunch of flowers at the 
base of the neck to hide bad modeling.” The 
red-haired girl laughed a little. “You want to 
do landscapes with cattle knee-deep in grass 
to hide bad drawing. You want to do a great 
deal more than you can do. You have sense of 
color, but you want form. Color’s a gift, — 
put it aside and think no more about it, — but 
form you can be drilled into. Now, all your 
fancy heads — and some of them are very good 
— will keep you exactly where you are. With 
line you must go forward or backward, and it 
will show up all your weaknesses.” 

“But other people” — began Maisie. 

“You mustn’t mind what other people do. 
If their souls were your soul, it would be dif- 
ferent. You stand and fall by your own work, 
remember, and it’s waste of time to think of 
any one else in this battle.” 

Dick paused, and the longing that had been 
so resolutely put away came back into his eyes. 
He looked at Maisie, and the look asked as 
plainly as words, Was it not time to leave all 


ioo THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


this barren wilderness of canvas and counsel 
and join hands with Life and Love? 

Maisie assented to the new programme of 
schooling so adorably that Dick could hardly 
restrain himself from picking her up then and 
there and carrying her off to the nearest reg- 
istrar’s office. It was the implicit obedience 
to the spoken word and the blank indifference 
to the unspoken desire that baffled and buffeted 
his soul. He held authority in that house, — 
authority limited, indeed, to one-half of one 
afternoon in seven, but very real while it 
lasted. Maisie had learned to appeal to him 
on many subjects, from the proper packing of 
pictures to the condition of a smoky chimney. 
The red-haired girl never consulted him about 
anything. On the other hand, she accepted 
his appearances without protest, and watched 
him always. He discovered that the meals of 
the establishment were irregular and fragmen- 
tary. They depended chiefly on tea, pickles, 
and biscuit, as he had suspected from the be- 
ginning. The girls were supposed to market 
week in and week out, but they lived, with the 
help of a charwoman, as casually as the young 
ravens. Maisie spent most of her income on 
models, and the other girl reveled in apparatus 
as refined as her work was rough. Armed 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED ioi 


with knowledge dear-bought from the Docks, 
Dick warned Maisie that the end of semi-star- 
vation meant the crippling of power to work, 
which was considerably worse than death. 
Maisie took the warning, and gave more 
thought to what she ate and drank. When his 
trouble returned upon him, as it generally did 
in the long winter twilights, the remembrance 
of that little act of domestic authority and his 
coercion with a hearth-brush of the smoky 
drawing-room chimney stung Dick like a 
whip-lash. 

He conceived that this memory would be 
the extreme of his sufferings, till one Sunday, 
the red-haired girl announced that she would 
make a study of Dick’s head, and that he 
would be good enough to sit still, and — quite 
as an afterthought — look at Maisie. He sat, 
because he could not well refuse, and for the 
space of half an hour he reflected on all the 
people in the past whom he had laid open for 
the purposes of his own craft. He remem- 
bered Binat most distinctly, — that Binat who 
had once been an artist and talked about deg- 
radation. 

It was the merest monochrome roughing in 
of a head, but it presented the dumb waiting, 
the longing, and, above all, the hopeless en- 


102 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


slavement of the man, in a spirit of bitter 
mockery. 

'Til buy it,” said Dick, promptly, "at your 
own price.” 

"My price is too high, but I dare say you’ll 
be as grateful if” — The wet sketch fluttered 
from the girl’s hand and fell into the ashes of 
the studio stove. When she picked it up it was 
hopelessly smudged. 

"Oh, it’s all spoiled!” said Maisie. "And I 
never saw it. Was it like?” 

"Thank you,” said Dick, under his breath 
to the red-haired girl, and he removed himself 
swiftly. 

"How that man hates me!” said the girl. 
"And how he loves you, Maisie!” 

"What nonsense! I know Dick’s very fond 
of me, but he has his work to do, and I have 
mine.” 

"Yes, he is fond of you, and I think he 
knows there is something in impressionism, 
after all. Maisie, can’t you see?” 

"See? See what?” 

"Nothing; only, I know that if I could get 
any man to look at me as that man looks at 
you, I’d — I don’t know what I’d do. But he 
hates me. Oh, how he hates me !” 

She was not altogether correct. Dick’s 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 103 


hatred was tempered with gratitude for a few 
moments, and then he forgot the girl entirely. 
Only the sense of shame remained, and he was 
nursing it across the Park in the fog. 
“There’ll be an explosion one of these days,” 
he said, wrathfully. “But it isn’t Maisie’s 
fault; she’s right, quite right, as far as she 
knows, and I can’t blame her. This business 
has been going on for three months nearly. 
Three months ! — and it cost me ten years’ 
knocking about to get at the notion, the mer- 
est raw notion, of my work. That’s true; but 
then I didn’t have pins, drawing-pins and pal- 
ette-knives, stuck into me every Sunday. Oh, 
my little darling, if ever I break you, some- 
body will have a very bad time of it. No, she 
won’t. I’d be as big a fool about her as I am 
now. I’ll poison that red-haired girl on my 
wedding-day, — she’s unwholesome, — and now 
I’ll pass on these present bad times to Torp.” 

Torpenhow had been moved to lecture Dick 
more than once lately on the sin of levity, and 
Dick had listened and replied not a word. In 
the weeks between the first few Sundays of his 
discipline he had flung himself savagely into 
his work, resolved that Maisie should at least 
know the full stretch of his powers. Then he 
had taught Maisie that she must not pay the 


104 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


least attention to any work outside her own, 
and Maisie had obeyed him all too well. She 
took his counsels, but was not interested in his 
pictures. 

“Your things smell of tobacco and blood,” 
she said once. “Can’t you do anything except 
soldiers ?” 

“I could do a head of you that would startle 
you,” thought Dick, — this was before the red- 
haired girl had brought him under the guillo- 
tine — but he only said, “I am very sorry,” and 
harrowed Torpenhow’ s soul that evening with 
blasphemies against Art. Later, insensibly 
and to a large extent against his own will, he 
ceased to interest himself in his own work. 
For Maisie’s sake, and to soothe the self-re- 
spect that it seemed to him he lost each Sun- 
day he would not consciously turn out bad 
stuff, but, since Maisie did not care even for 
his best, it were better not to do anything at 
all save wait and mark time between Sunday 
and Sunday. Torpenhow was disgusted as the 
weeks went by fruitless, and then attacked him 
one Sunday evening when Dick felt utterly ex- 
hausted after three hours’ biting self-restraint 
in Maisie’s presence. There was Language, 
and Torpenhow withdrew to consult the Nil- 
ghai, who had come in to talk continental pol- 
itics. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 105 


“Bone-idle, is he? Careless, and touched in 
the temper?” said the Nilghai. “It isn’t worth 
worrying over. Dick is probably playing the 
fool with a woman.” 

“Isn’t that bad enough?” 

“No. She may throw him out of gear and 
knock his work to pieces for a while. She 
may even turn up here some day and make a 
scene on the staircase : one never knows. But 
until Dick speaks of his own accord you had 
better not touch him. He is no easy-tempered 
man to handle.” 

“No; I wish he were. He is such an ag- 
gressive, cocksure, you-be-damned fellow.” 

“He’ll get that knocked out of him in time. 
He must learn that he can’t storm up and down 
the world with a box of moist tubes and a slick 
brush. You’re fond of him?” 

“I’d take any punishment that’s in store for 
him if I could; but the worst of it is, no man 
can save his brother.” 

“No, and the worser of it is, there is no dis- 
charge in this war. Dick must learn his lesson 
like the rest of us. Talking of war, there’ll be 
trouble in the Balkans in the spring.” 

“That trouble is long coming. I wonder if 
we could drag Dick out there when it comes 
off?” 


10 6 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


Dick entered the room soon afterward, and 
the question was put to him. “Not good 
enough,” he said, shortly. “I’m too comfy 
where I am.” 

“Surely you aren’t taking all the stuff in the 
papers seriously?” said the Nilghai. “Your 
vogue will be ended in less than six months, — 
the public will know your touch and go on to 
something new, — and where will you be then?” 

“Here, in England.” 

“When you might be doing decent work 
among us out there? Nonsense! I shall go, 
the Keneu will be there, Torp will be there, 
Cassavetti will be there, and the whole lot of 
us will be there, and we shall have as much as 
ever we can do, with unlimited fighting and 
the chance for you of seeing things that would 
make the reputation of three Verestchagins.” 

“Urn!” said Dick, pulling at his pipe. 

“You prefer to stay here and imagine that 
all the world is gaping at your pictures? Just 
think how full an average man’s life is of his 
own pursuits and pleasures. When twenty 
thousand of him find time to look up between 
mouthfuls and grunt something about some- 
thing they aren’t the least interested in, the 
net result is called fame, reputation, or notori- 
ety, according to the taste and fancy of the 
speller my lord.” 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 107 


“I know that as well as you do. Give me 
credit for a little gumption: ” 

“Be hanged if I do !” 

“Be hanged, then; you probably will be, — 
for a spy, by excited Turks. Heigh-ho! I’m 
weary, dead weary, and virtue has gone out 
of me.” Dick dropped into a chair, and was 
fast asleep in a minute. 

“That’s a bad sign,” said the Nilghai, in an 
undertone. 

Torpenhow picked the pipe from the waist- 
coat where it was beginning to burn, and put 
a pillow behind the head. “We can’t help; we 
can’t help,” he said. “It’s a good ugly sort of 
old cocoanut, and I’m fond of it. There’s the 
scar of the wipe he got when he was cut over 
in the square.” 

“Shouldn’t wonder if that has made him a 
trifle mad.” 

“I should. He’s a most business-like mad- 
man.” 

Then Dick began to snore furiously. 

“Oh, here, no affection can stand this sort 
of thing. Wake up, Dick, and go and sleep 
somewhere else, if you intend to make a noise 
about it.” 

“When a cat has been out on the tiles all 
night,” said the Nilghai in his beard, “I no- 


io8 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


tice that she usually sleeps all day. This is 
natural history.” 

Dick staggered away rubbing his eyes and 
yawning. In the night-watches he was over- 
taken with an idea, so simple and so luminous 
that he wondered he had never conceived it be- 
fore. It was full of craft. He would seek 
Maisie on a week-day, — would suggest an ex- 
cursion, and would take her by train to Fort 
Keeling, over the very ground that they two 
had trodden together ten years ago. 

“As a general rule,” he explained to his 
chin-lathered reflection in the morning, “it 
isn’t safe to cross an old trail twice. Things 
remind one of things, and a cold wind gets up, 
and you feel sad; but this is an exception to 
every rule that ever was. V 11 go to Maisie at 
once.” 

Fortunately, the red-haired girl was out 
shopping when he arrived, and Maisie in a 
paint-bespattered blouse was warring with her 
canvas. She was not pleased to see him; for 
week-day visits were a stretch of the bond; 
and it needed all his courage to explain his er- 
rand. 

“I know you’ve been working too hard,” he 
concluded, with an air of authority. “If you 
do that, you’ll break down. You had much 
better come.” 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 109 


“Where?” said Maisie, wearily. She had 
been standing before her easel too long, and 
was very tired. 

“Anywhere you please. We’ll take a train 
to-morrow and see where it stops. We’ll have 
lunch somewhere, and I’ll bring you back in 
the evening.” 

“If there’s a good working light to-mor- 
row I lose a day.” Maisie balanced the heavy 
white chestnut palette irresolutely. 

Dick bit back an oath that was hurrying to 
his lips. He had not yet learned patience with 
the maiden to whom her work was all in all. 

“You’ll lose ever so many more, dear, if 
you use every hour of working light. Over- 
work’s only murderous idleness. Don’t be un- 
reasonable. I’ll call for you to-morrow after 
breakfast early.” 

“But surely you are going to ask” — 

“No, I am not. I want you and nobody else. 
Besides, she hates me as much as I hate her. 
She won’t care to come. To-morrow, then; 
and pray that we get sunshine.” 

Dick went away delighted, and by conse- 
quence did no work whatever. He strangled 
a wild desire to order a special train, but 
bought a great grey kangaroo cloak lined with 
glossy black marten, and then retired into him- 
self to consider things. 


no THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


"I’m going out for the day to-morrow with 
Dick,” said Maisie to the red-haired girl when 
the latter returned, tired, from marketing in 
the Edgware Road. 

“He deserves it. I shall have the studio 
floor thoroughly scrubbed while you’re away. 
It’s very dirty.” 

Maisie had enjoyed no sort of holiday for 
months, and looked forward to the little ex- 
citement, but not without misgivings. 

“There’s nobody nicer than Dick when he 
talks sensibly,” she thought, “but I’m sure he’ll 
be silly and worry me, and I’m sure I can’t 
tell him anything he’d like to hear. If he’d 
only be sensible I should like him so much 
better.” 

Dick’s eyes were full of joy when he made 
his appearance next morning and saw Maisie, 
grey-ulstered and black-velvet-hatted, stand- 
ing in the hallway. Palaces of marble, and 
not sordid imitations of grained wood, were 
surely the fittest background for such a divin- 
ity. The red-haired girl drew her into the 
studio for a moment and kissed her hurriedly. 
Maisie’s eyebrows climbed to the top of her 
forehead; she was altogether unused to these 
demonstrations. “Mind my hat,” she said, 
hurrying away, and ran down the steps to Dick 
waiting by the hansom. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


hi 


“Are you quite warm enough? Are you 
sure you wouldn’t like some more breakfast? 
Put this cloak over your knees.” 

“I’m quite comfy, thanks. Where are we 
going, Dick? Oh, do stop singing like that. 
People will think we’re mad.” 

“Let ’em think, — if the exertion doesn’t kill 
them. They don’t know who we are, and I’m 
sure I don’t care who they are. My faith, 
Maisie, you’re looking lovely!” 

Maisie stared directly in front of her and 
did not reply. The wind of a keen clear win- 
ter morning had put color into her cheeks. 
Overhead, the creamy-yellow smoke-clouds 
were thinning away one by one against a pale- 
blue sky, and the improvident sparrows broke 
off from water-spout committees and cab-rank 
cabals to clamor of the coming of spring. 

“It will be lovely weather in the country,” 
said Dick. 

“But where are we going?” 

“Wait and see.” 

They stopped at Victoria, and Dick sought 
tickets. For less than half the fraction of an 
instant it occurred to Maisie, comfortably 
settled by the waiting-room fire, that it was 
much more pleasant to send a man to the book- 
ing-office than to elbow one’s own way 


1 12 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


through the crowd. Dick put her into a Pull- 
man, — solely on account of the warmth there; 
and she regarded the extravagance with grave, 
scandalized eyes as the train moved out into 
the country. 

“I wish I knew where we are going,” she 
repeated for the twentieth time. The name of 
a well-remembered station flashed by, toward 
the end of the run, and Maisie was enlight- 
ened. 

“Oh, Dick, you villain !” 

“Well, I thought you might like to see the 
place again. You haven’t been here since the 
old times, have you?” 

“No. I never cared to see Mrs. Jennett 
again; and she was all that was ever there.” 

“Not quite. Look out a minute. There’s 
the windmill above the potato-fields ; they 
haven’t built villas there yet; d’you remember 
when I shut ycu up in it?” 

“Yes. How she beat you for it! I never 
told it was you.” 

“She guessed. I jammed a stick under the 
door and told you that I was burying 
Amomma alive in the potatoes, and you be- 
lieved me. You had a trusting nature in those 
days.” 

They laughed and leaned to look out, iden- 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 113 


tifying ancient landmarks with many remi- 
niscences. Dick fixed his weather eye on the 
curve of Maisie’s cheek, very near his own, 
and watched the blood rise under the clear 
skin. He congratulated himself upon his cun- 
ning, and looked that the evening would bring 
him a great reward. 

When the train stopped they went out to 
look at the old town with new eyes. First, 
but from a distance, they regarded the house 
of Mrs. Jennett. 

“Suppose she should come out now, what 
would you do?” said Dick, with mock terror. 

“I should make a face.” 

“Show, then,” said Dick, dropping into the 
speech of childhood. 

Maisie made that face in the direction of the 
mean little villa, and Dick laughed aloud. 

“ This is disgraceful,’ ” said Maisie, mim- 
icking Mrs. Jennett’s tone. “ 'Maisie, you 
run in at once, and learn the collect, gospel, 
and epistle for the next three Sundays. After 
all I’ve taught you, too, and three helps every 
Sunday at dinner ! Dick’s always leading you 
into mischief. If you aren’t a gentleman, 
Dick, you might at least’ ” — 

The sentence ended abruptly. Maisie re- 
membered when it had last been used. 


1 14 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“ Try to behave like one/ ” said Dick, 
promptly. “Quite right. Now we’ll get some 
lunch and go on to Fort Keeling, — unless 
you’d rather drive there?” 

“We must walk, out of respect to the place. 
How little changed it all is !” 

They turned in the direction of the sea 
through unaltered streets, and the influence of 
old things lay upon them. Presently they 
passed a confectioner’s shop much considered 
in the days when their joint pocket-money 
amounted to a shilling a week. 

“Dick, have you any pennies?” said Maisie, 
half to herself. 

“Only three; and if you think you’re going 
to have two of ’em to buy peppermints with, 
you’re wrong. She says peppermints aren’t 
ladylike.” 

Again they laughed, and again the color 
came into Maisie’s cheeks as the blood boiled 
through Dick’s heart. After a large lunch 
they went down to the beach and to Fort Keel- 
ing across the waste, wind-bitten land that no 
builder had thought it worth his while to de- 
file. The winter breeze came in from the sea 
and sang about their ears. 

“Maisie,” said Dick, “your nose is getting a 
crude Persian blue at the tip. I’ll race you as 
far as you please for as much as you please.” 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 115 


SH looked round cautiously, and with a 
laugh set off, swiftly as the ulster allowed, till 
she was out of breath. 

“We used to run miles,” she panted. “It's 
absurd that we can’t run now.” 

“Old age, dear. This it is to get fat and 
sleek in town. When I wished to pull your 
hair you generally ran for three miles, shriek- 
ing at the top of your voice. I ought to know, 
because those shrieks were meant to call up 
Mrs. Jennett with a cane and” — 

“Dick, I never got you a beating on pur- 
pose in my life.” 

“No, of course you never did. Good heav- 
ens! look at the sea.” 

“Why, it’s the same as ever!” said Maisie. 

Torpenhow had gathered from Mr. Beeton 
that Dick, properly dressed and shaved, had 
left the house at half-past eight in the morning 
with a traveling-rug over his arm. The Nil- 
ghai rolled in at midday for chess and polite 
conversation. 

“It’s worse than anything I imagined,” said 
Torpenhow. 

“Oh, it’s the everlasting Dick, I suppose! 
You fuss over him like a hen with one chick. 
Let him run riot if he thinks it’ll amuse him. 


Ii6 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


You can whip a young pup off feather, but 
you can’t whip a young man.” 

“It isn’t a woman. It’s one woman ; and it’s 
a girl.” 

“Where’s your proof?” 

“He got up and went out at eight this morn- 
ing, — got up in the middle of the night, by 
Jove! a thing he never does except when he’s 
on service. Even then, remember, we had to 
kick him out of his blankets before the fight 
began at El-Maghrib. It’s disgusting.” 

“It looks odd; but maybe he’s decided to 
buy a horse at last. He might get up for that, 
mightn’t he?” 

“Buy a blazing wheelbarrow! He’d have 
told us if there was a horse in the wind. It’s 
a girl.” 

“Don’t be certain. Perhaps it’s only a mar- 
ried woman.” 

“Dick has some sense of humor, if you 
haven’t. Who gets up in the grey dawn to call 
on another man’s wife? It’s a girl.” 

“Let it be a girl, then. She may teach him 
that there’s somebody else in the world besides 
himself.” 

“She’ll spoil his hand. She’ll waste his 
time, and she’ll marry him, and ruin his work 
forever. He’ll be a respectable married man 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 117 


before we can stop him, and — he’ll never go 
on the long trail again.” 

“All quite possible, but the earth won’t spin 
the other way when it happens. . . . Ho ! 

ho! I’d give something to see Dick ‘go woo- 
ing with the boys.’ Don’t worry about it. 
These things be with Allah, and we can only 
look on. Get the chessmen.” 

* * * * * * 

The red-haired girl was lying down in her 
own room, staring at the ceiling. The foot- 
steps of people on the pavement sounded, as 
they grew indistinct in the distance, like a 
many-times-repeated kiss that was all one long 
kiss. Her hands were by her side, and they 
opened and shut savagely from time to time. 

The charwoman in charge of the scrubbing 
of the studio knocked at her door : “Beg y’ 
pardon, miss, but in cleanin’ of a floor there’s 
two, not to say three, kind of soap, which is 
yaller, an’ mottled, an’ disinfectink. Now, jist 
before I took my pail into the passage I 
thought it would be pre’aps jest as well if I 
was to come up ’ere an’ ask you what sort of 
soap you was wishful that I should use on 
them boards. The yaller soap, miss” — 

There was nothing in the speech to have 


Ii8 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


caused the paroxysm of fury that drove the 
red-haired girl into the middle of the room, al- 
most shouting — 

“Do you suppose I care what you use ? Any 
kind will do ! — any kind !” 

The woman fled, and the red-haired girl 
looked at her own reflection in the glass for an 
instant and covered her face with her hands. 
It was as though she had shouted some shame- 
less secret aloud, 


CHAPTER VII 


Roses red and roses white 
Plucked I for my love’s delight. 

She would none of all my posies, 

Bade me gather her blue roses. 

Half the world I wandered through, 
Seeking where such flowers grew; 

Half the world unto my quest 
Answered but with laugh and jest. 

It may be beyond the grave 
She shall find what she would have. 

Oh, ’twas but an idle quest, — 

Roses white and red are best! 

— Blue Roses. 


Indeed the sea had not changed. Its waters 
were low on the mud-banks, and the Marazion 
bell-buoy clanked and swung in the tide-way. 
On the white beach-sand dried stumps of sea- 
poppy shivered and chatted together. 

“I don’t see the old breakwater,” said 
Maisie, under her breath. 

“Let’s be thankful that we have as much as 
we have. I don’t believe they’ve mounted a 
single new gun on the fort since we were here. 
Come and look.” 

119 


120 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


They came to the glacis of Fort Keeling, 
and sat down in a nook sheltered from the 
wind and under the tarred throat of a forty- 
pounder cannon. 

“Now, if Amomma were only here!” said 
Maisie. 

For a long time both were silent. Then 
Dick took Maisie’s hand and called her by 
her name. 

She shook her head and looked out to sea. 

“Maisie, darling, doesn’t it make any dif- 
ference?” 

“No!” between clenched teeth. “I’d — I’d 
tell you if it did; but it doesn’t. Oh, Dick, 
please be sensible.” 

“Don’t you think that it ever will?” 

“No, I’m sure it won’t.” 

“Why?” 

Maisie rested her chin on her hand, and, 
still regarding the sea, spoke hurriedly — 

“I know what you want perfectly well, but 
I can’t give it you, Dick. It isn’t my fault ; in- 
deed it isn’t. If I felt that I could care for any 
one — But I don’t feel that I care. I simply 
don’t understand what the feeling means.” 

“Is that true, dear?” 

“You’ve been very good to me, Dickie ; and 
the only way I can pay you back is by speak- 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 12 1 


ing the truth. I daren’t tell a fib. I despise 
myself quite enough as it is.” 

“What in the world for?” 

“Because — because I take everything that 
you give me and I give you nothing in return. 
It’s mean and selfish of me, and whenever I 
think of it it worries me.” 

“Understand once for all, then, that I can 
manage my own affairs, and if I choose to do 
anything you aren’t to blame. You haven’t 
a single thing to reproach yourself with, darl- 
ing.” 

“Yes, I have, and talking only makes it 
worse.” 

“Then don’t talk about it.” 

“How can I help myself? If you find me 
alone for a minute you are always talking 
about it; and when you aren’t you look it. 
You don’t know how I despise myself some- 
times.” 

“Great goodness!” said Dick, nearly jump- 
ing to his feet. “Speak the truth now, Maisie, 
if you never speak it again! Do I — does this 
worrying bore you?” 

“No. It does not.” 

“You’d tell me if it did?” 

“I should let you know, I think.” 

“Thank you. The other thing is fatal. But 


122 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


you must learn to forgive a man when he’s in 
love. He’s always a nuisance. You must 
have known that ?” 

Maisie did not consider the last question 
worth answering, and Dick was forced to re- 
peat it. 

“There were other men, of course. They 
always worried just when I was in the middle 
of my work, and wanted me to listen to them.” 

“Did you listen?” 

“At first; and they couldn’t understand why 
I didn’t care. And they used to praise my pic- 
tures; and I thought they meant it. I used to 
be proud of the praise, and tell Kami, and — I 
shall never forget — once Kami laughed at me.” 

“You don’t like being laughed at, Maisie, 
do you?” 

“I hate it. I never laugh at other people 
unless — unless they do bad work. Dick, tell 
me honestly what you think of my pictures 
generally, — of everything of mine that you’ve 
seen.” 

“ ‘Honest, honest, and honest over !’ ” 
quoted Dick from a catchword of long ago. 
“Tell me what Kami always says.” 

Maisie hesitated. “He — he says that there 
is feeling in them.” 

“How dare you tell me a fib like that ? Re- 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 123 


member, I was under Kami for two years. I 
know exactly what he says.” 

“It isn’t a fib.” 

“It’s worse; it’s a half truth. Kami says, 
when he puts his head on one side, — so, — 77 y 
a du sentiment , mais it n’y a pas de parti 
pris / ” He rolled the r threateningly, as Kami 
used to do. 

“Yes, that is what he says; and I’m begin- 
ning to think that he is right.” 

“Certainly he is.” Dick admitted that two 
people in the world could do and say no 
wrong. Kami was the man. 

“And now you say the same thing. It’s so 
disheartening.” 

“I’m sorry, but you asked me to speak the 
truth. Besides, I love you too much to pretend 
about your work. It’s strong, it’s patient 
sometimes, — not always, — and sometimes 
there’s power in it, but there’s no special rea- 
son why it should be done at all. At least 
that’s how it strikes me.” 

“There’s no special reason why anything in 
the world should ever be done. You know 
that as well as I do. I only want success.” 

“You’re going the wrong way to get it, 
then. Hasn’t Kami ever told you so?” 

“Don’t quote Kami to me. I want to know 


124 THE light that failed 


what you think. My work’s bad, to begin 
with.” 

“I didn’t say that, and I don’t think it.” 

“It’s amateurish, then.” 

“That it most certainly is not. You’re a 
workwoman, darling, to your boot-heels, and 
I respect you for that.” 

“You don’t laugh at me behind my back?” 

“No, dear. You see, you are more to me 
than any one else. Put this cloak round you, 
or you’ll get chilled.” 

Maisie wrapped herself in the soft marten 
skins, turning the grey kangaroo fur to the 
outside. 

“This is delicious,” she said, rubbing her 
chin thoughtfully along the fur. “Well? Why 
am I wrong in trying to get a little success?” 

“Just because you try. Don’t you under- 
stand, darling ? Good work has nothing to do 
with — doesn’t belong to — the person who does 
it. It’s put into him or her from outside.” 

“But how does that affect” — 

“Wait a minute. All we can do is to learn 
how to do our work, to be masters of our ma- 
terials instead of servants, and never to be 
afraid of anything.” 

“I understand that.” 

“Everything else comes from outside our- 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 125 


selves. Very good. If we sit down quietly to 
work out notions that are sent to us, we may 
or may not do something that isn’t bad. A 
great deal depends on being master of the 
bricks and mortar of the trade. But the in- 
stant we begin to think about success and the 
effect of our work — to play with one eye on 
the gallery — we lose power and touch and 
everything else. At least that’s how I have 
found it. Instead of being quiet and giving 
every power you possess to your work, you’re 
fretting over something which you can neither 
help nor hinder by a minute. See?” 

“It’s so easy for you to talk in that way. 
People like what you do. Don’t you ever 
think about the gallery?” 

“Much too often; but I’m always punished 
for it by loss of power. It’s as simple as the 
Rule of Three. If we make light of our work 
by using it for our own ends, our work will 
make light of us, and, we’re the weaker, we 
shall suffer.” 

“I don’t treat my work lightly. You know 
that it’s everything to me.” 

“Of course; but, whether you realize it or 
not, you give two strokes for yourself to one 
for your work. It isn’t your fault, darling. I 
do exactly the same thing, and know that I’m 


126 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


doing it. Most of the French schools, and all 
the schools here, drive the students to work 
for their own credit, and for the sake of their 
pride. I was told that all the world was in- 
terested in my work, and everybody at Kami’s 
talked turpentine, and I honestly believe that 
the world needed elevating and influencing, 
and all manner of impertinences, by my 
brushes. By Jove, I actually believed that! 
When my little head was bursting with a no- 
tion that I couldn’t handle because I hadn’t 
sufficient knowledge of my craft, I used to run 
about wondering at my own magnificence and 
getting ready to astonish the world.” 

“But surely one can do that sometimes?” 

“Very seldom with malice aforethought, 
darling. And when it’s done it’s such a tiny 
thing, and the world’s sc big, and all but a mil- 
lionth part of it doesn’t care. Maisie, come 
with me and I’ll show you something of the 
size of the world. One can no more avoid 
working than eating — that goes by itself, — 
but try to see what you are working for. I 
know such little heavens that I could take you 
to, — islands tucked away under the Line. You 
sight them after weeks of crashing through 
water as black as black marble because it’s so 
deep, and you sit in the fore-chains day after 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 127 


day and see the sun rise almost afraid because 
the sea’s so lonely.” 

“Who is afraid? — you, or the sun?” 

“The sun, of course. And there are noises 
under the sea, and sounds overhead in a clear 
sky. Then you find your island alive with hot, 
moist orchids that make mouths at you and 
can do everything except talk. There’s a 
waterfall in it three hundred feet high, just 
like a sliver of green jade laced with silver; 
and millions of wild bees live up in the rocks ; 
and you can hear the fat cocoanuts falling 
from the palms ; and you order an ivory-white 
servant to sling you a long, yellow hammock 
with tassels on it like ripe maize, and you put 
up your feet and hear the bees hum and the 
water fall till you go to sleep.” 

“Can one work there?” 

“Certainly. One must do something always. 
You hang your canvas up in a palm-tree and 
let the parrots criticise. When they scuffle you 
heave a ripe custard-apple at them, and it 
bursts in a lather of cream. There are hun- 
dreds of places. Come and see them.” 

“I don’t quite like that place. It sounds 
lazy. Tell me another.” 

“What do you think of a big, red, dead city 
built of red sandstone, with raw green aloes 


128 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


growing- between the stones, lying out neg- 
lected on honey-colored sands? There are 
forty dead kings there, Maisie, each in a gor- 
geous tomb finer than all the others. You look 
at the palaces and streets and shops and tanks, 
and think that men must live there, till you 
find a wee grey squirrel rubbing its nose all 
alone in the market-place, and a jeweled pea- 
cock struts out of a carved doorway and 
spreads its tail against a marble screen as fine 
pierced as point-lace. Then a monkey — a lit- 
tle black monkey — walks through the main 
square to get a drink from a tank forty feet 
deep. He slides down the creepers to the 
water’s edge, and a friend holds him by the 
tail, in case he should fall in.” 

“Is all that true?” 

“I have been there and seen. Then evening 
comes, and the lights change till it’s just as 
though you stood in the heart of a king-opal. 
A little before sundown, as punctually as clock- 
work, a big bristly wild boar, with all his fam- 
ily following, trots through the city gate, 
churning the foam on his tusks. You climb on 
the shoulder of a blind black stone god and 
watch that pig choose himself a palace for the 
night and stump in wagging his tail. Then the 
night-wind gets up, and the sands move, and 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 129 


you hear the desert outside the city singing, 
‘Now I lay me down to sleep,’ and everything 
is dark till the moon rises. Maisie darling, 
come with me and see what the world is really 
like. It’s very lovely, and it’s very horrible, — - 
but I won’t let you see anything horrid, — 
and it doesn’t care your life or mine for pic- 
tures or anything else except doing its own 
work and making love. Come, and I’ll show 
you how to brew sangaree and sling a ham- 
mock, and — oh, thousands of things, and you’ll 
see for yourself what color means, and we’ll 
find out together what love means, and then, 
maybe, we shall be allowed to do some good 
work. Come away!” 

“Why?” said Maisie. 

“How can you do anything until you have 
seen everything or as much as you can? And 
besides, darling, I love you. Come along with 
me. You have no business here ; you don’t be- 
long to this place; you’re half a gypsy, — your 
face tells that; and I — even the smell of open 
water makes me restless. Come across the sea 
and be happy !” 

He had risen to his feet, and stood in the 
shadow of the gun, looking down at the girl. 
The very short winter afternoon had worn 
away, and, before they knew, the winter moon 


130 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


was walking the untroubled sea. Long ruled 
lines of silver showed where a ripple of the ris- 
ing tide was turning over the mud-banks. The 
wind had dropped, and in the intense stillness 
they could hear a donkey cropping the frosty 
grass many yards away. A faint beating, like 
that of a muffled drum, came out of the moon- 
haze. 

“What’s that?” said Maisie quickly. “It 
sounds like a heart beating. Where is it?” 

Dick was so angry at this sudden wrench 
to his pleadings that he could not trust himself 
to speak, and in this silence caught the sound. 
Maisie from her seat under the gun watched 
him with a certain amount of fear. She wished 
so much that he would be sensible and cease 
to worry her with over-sea emotion that she 
both could and could not understand. She was 
not prepared, however, for the change in his 
face as he listened. 

“It’s a steamer,” he said, — “a twin-screw 
steamer, by the beat. I can’t make her out, but 
she must be standing very close in-shore. Ah !” 
as the red of a rocket streaked the haze, “she’s 
standing in to signal before she clears the 
Channel.” 

“Is it a wreck?” said Maisie, to whom these 
words were as Greek. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 13 1 


Dick’s eyes were turned to the sea. “Wrecic ■ 
What nonsense ! She’s only reporting herself. 
Red rocket forward — there’s a green light aft 
now, and two red rockets from the bridge.” 

“What does that mean ?” 

“It’s the signal of the Cross Keys Line run- 
ning to Australia. I wonder which steamer it 
is.” The note of his voice had changed; he 
seemed to be talking to himself, and Maisie 
did not approve of it. The moonlight broke the 
haze for a moment, touching the black sides of 
a long steamer working down Channel. “Four 
masts and three funnels — she’s in deep draught 
too. That must be the Barralong, or the Bhii- 
tia. No, the Bhutia has a clipper bow. It’s 
the Barralong , to Australia. She’ll lift the 
Southern Cross in a week, — lucky old tub ! — oh 
lucky old tub!” 

He stared intently, and moved up the slope 
of the fort to get a better view, but the mist 
on the sea thickened again, and the beating of 
the screws grew fainter. Maisie called to him 
a little angrily, and he returned, still keeping 
his eyes to seaward. “Have you ever seen the 
Southern Cross blazing right over your head ?” 
he asked. “It’s superb !” 

“No,” she said, shortly, “and I don’t want 
to. If you think it’s so lovely, why don’t you 
go and see it yourself?” 


132 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


She raised her face from the soft blackness 
of the marten skins about her throat, and her 
eyes shone like diamonds. The moonlight on 
the grey kangaroo fur turned it to frosted sil- 
ver of the coldest. 

“By Jove, Maisie, you look like a little heath- 
en idol tucked up there.” The eyes showed that 
they did not appreciate the compliment. “I’m 
sorry,” he continued. “The Southern Cross 
isn’t worth looking at unless some one helps 
you to see. That steamer’s out of hearing.” 

“Dick,” she said, quietly, “suppose I were 
to come to you now, — be quiet a minute, — just 
as I am, and caring for you just as much as 
I do.” 

“Not as a brother, though? You said you 
didn’t — in the Park.” 

“I never had a brother. Suppose I said, 
Take me to those places, and in time, perhaps, 
I might really care for you,’ what would you 
do?” 

“Send you straight back to where you came 
from, in a cab. No, I wouldn’t; I’d let you 
walk. But you couldn’t do it, dear. And I 
wouldn’t run the risk. You’re worth waiting 
for till you can come without reservation.” 

“Do you honestly believe that ?” 

“I have a hazy sort of idea that I do. Has 
it never struck you in that light?” 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 133 


“Ye — es. I feel so wicked about it.” 

“Wickeder than usual?” 

“You don’t know all I think. It’s almost 
too awful to tell.” 

“Never mind. You promised to tell me the 
truth — at least.” 

“It’s so ungrateful of me, but — but, though I 
know you care for me, and I like to have you 
with me, I’d — I’d even sacrifice you, if that 
would bring me what I want.” 

“My poor little darling! I know that state 
of mind. It doesn’t lead to good work.” 

“You aren’t angry? Remember, I do des- 
pise myself.” 

“I’m not exactly flattered, — had guessed as 
much before, — but I’m not angry. I’m sorry 
for you. Surely you ought to have left a lit- 
tleness like that behind you, years ago.” 

“You’ve no right to patronize me! I only 
want what I have worked for so long. It came 
to you without any trouble, and — and I don’t 
think it’s fair.” 

“What can I do? I’d give ten years of my 
life to get you what you want. But I can’t 
help you; even I can’t help.” 

A murmur of dissent from Maisie. He went 
on — 

“And I know by what you have just said 


134 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


that you’re on the wrong road to success. It 
isn’t got at by sacrificing other people, — I’ve 
had that much knocked into me ; you must sac- 
' rifice yourself, and live under orders, and never 
think for yourself, and never have real satis- 
faction in your work except just at the begin- 
ning, when you’re reaching out after a notion.” 

“How can you believe all that?” 

“There’s no question of belief or disbelief. 
That’s the law, and you take it or refuse it 
as you please. I try to obey, but I can’t, and 
then my work turns bad on my hands. Under 
any circumstances, remember, four-fifths of 
everybody’s work must be bad. But the rem- 
nant is worth the trouble for its own sake.” 

“Isn’t it nice to get credit even for bad 
work ?” 

“It’s much too nice. But — May I tell you 
something? It isn’t a pretty tale, but you’re 
so like a man that I forget when I’m talking 
to you.” 

“Tell me.” 

“Once when I was out in the Soudan I went 
over some ground that we had been fighting on 
for three days. There were twelve hundred 
dead ; and we hadn’t time to bury them.” 

“How ghastly!” 

“I had been at work on a big double-sheet 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 135 


sketch, and I was wondering what people 
would think of it at home. The sight of that 
field taught me a good deal. It looked just like 
a bed of horrible toadstools in all colors, and 
— I’d never seen men in bulk go back to their 
beginnings before. So I began to understand 
that men and women were only material to 
work with, and that what they said or did was 
of no consequence. See? Strictly speaking, 
you might just as well put your ear down to 
the palette to catch what your colors are say- 
ing.” 

‘‘Dick, that’s disgraceful !” 

“Wait a minute. I said, strictly speaking. 
Unfortunately, everybody must be either a man 
or a woman.” 

“I’m glad you allow that much.” 

“In your case I don’t. You aren’t a wom- 
an. But ordinary people, Maisie, must behave 
and work as such. That’s what makes me so 
savage.” He hurled a pebble toward the sea 
as he spoke. “I know that it is outside my 
business to care what people say; I can see 
that it spoils my output if I listen to ’em ; and 
yet, confound it all,” — another pebble flew sea- 
ward, — “I can’t help purring when I’m rubbed 
the right way. Even when I can see on a man’s 
forehead that he is lying his way through a 


136 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


clump of pretty speeches, those lies make me 
happy and play the mischief with my hand.” 

“And when he doesn’t say pretty things ?” 

“Then, belovedest,” — Dick grinned, — “I for- 
get that I am the steward of these gifts, and 
I want to make that man love and appreciate 
my work with a thick stick. It’s too humiliat- 
ing altogether ; but I suppose even if one were 
an angel and painted humans altogether from 
outside, one would lose in touch what one 
gained in grip.” 

Maisie laughed at the idea of Dick as an 
angel. 

“But you seem to think,” she said, “that 
everything nice spoils your hand.” 

“I don’t think. It’s the law, — just the same 
as it was at Mrs. Jennett’s. Everything that 
is nice does spoil your hand. I’m glad you see 
so clearly.” 

“I don’t like the view.” 

“Nor I. But — I have got orders ; what can 
I do? Are you strong enough to face it 
alone?” 

“I suppose I must.” 

“Let me help, darling. We can hold each 
other very tight and try to walk straight. We 
shall blunder horribly, but it will be better than 
stumbling apart. Maisie, can’t you see rea- 
son?” 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 137 


“l don’t think we should get on together. 
We should be two of a trade, so we should nev- 
er agree.” 

“How I should like to meet the man who 
made that proverb! He lived in a cave and 
ate raw bear, I fancy. I’d make him chew his 
own arrow-heads. Well ?” 

“I should be only half married to you. I 
should worry and fuss about my work, as I 
do now. Four days out of the seven Fm not 
fit to speak to.” 

“You talk as if no one else in the world had 
ever used a brush. D’you suppose that I don’t 
know the feeling of worry and bother and 
can’t-get-at-ness ? You’re lucky if you only 
have it four days out of the seven. What dif- 
ference would that make?” 

“A great deal — if you had it too.” 

“Yes, but I could respect it. Another man 
might not. He might laugh at you. But there’s 
no use talking about it. If you can think in 
that way you can’t care for me — yet.” 

The tide had nearly covered the mud-banks, 
and twenty little ripples broke on the beach 
before Maisie chose to speak. 

“Dick,” she said, slowly, “I believe very 
much that you are better than I am.” 

“This doesn’t seem to bear on the argument 
— but in what way?” 


138 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“I don’t quite know, but in what you said 
about work and things; and then you’re so 
patient. Yes, you’re better than I am.” 

Dick considered rapidly the murkiness of 
an average man’s life. There was nothing in 
the review to fill him with a sense of virtue. He 
lifted the hem of the cloak to his lips. 

“Why,” said Maisie, making as though she 
had not noticed, “can you see things that I 
can’t ? I don’t believe what you believe ; but you 
are right, I believe.” 

“If I’ve seen anything, God knows I couldn’t 
have seen it but for you, and I know that I 
couldn’t have said it except to you. You 
seemed to make everything clear for a min- 
ute; but I don’t practise what I preach. You 
would help me. . . . There are only us 

two in the world for all purposes, and — and 
you like to have me with you?” 

“Of course I do. I wonder if you can real- 
ize how utterly lonely I am!” 

“Darling, I think I can.” 

“Two years ago, when I first took the little 
house, I used to walk up and down the back- 
garden trying to cry. I never can cry. Can 
you?” 

“It’s some time since I tried. What was the 
trouble ? Overwork ?” 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 139 


“I don’t know; but I used to dream that I 
had broken down, and had no money, and 
was starving in London. I thought about it 
all day, and it frightened me — oh, how it 
frightened me!” 

“I know that fear. It’s the most terrible of 
all. It wakes me up in the night sometimes. 
You oughtn’t to know anything about it.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Never mind. Is your three hundred a year 
safe?” 

“It’s in Consols.” 

“Very well. If anyone comes to you and 
recommends a better investment, — even if I 
should come to you, — don’t you listen. Never 
shift the money for a minute, and never lend 
a penny of it, — even to the red-haired girl.” 

“Don’t scold me so! I’m not likely to be 
foolish.” 

“The earth is full of men who’d sell their 
souls for three hundred a year; and women 
come and talk, and borrow a five-pound note 
here and a ten-pound note there; and a wom- 
an has no conscience in a money debt. Stick 
to your money, Maisie; for there’s nothing 
more ghastly in the world than poverty in 
London. It’s scared me. By Jove, it put the 
fear into me! And one oughtn’t to be afraid 
of anything.” 


140 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


To each man is appointed his particular 
dread, — the terror that, if he does not fight 
against it, must cow him even to the loss of 
his manhood. Dick’s experience of the sor- 
did misery of want had entered into the deeps 
of him, and, lest he might find virtue too easy, 
that memory stood behind him, tempting to 
shame, when dealers came to buy his wares. As 
the Nilghai quaked against his will at the still 
green water of a lake or mill-dam, as Torpen- 
how flinched before any white arm that could 
cut or stab and loathed himself for flinching, 
Dick feared the poverty he had once tasted 
half in jest. His burden was heavier than 
the burdens of his companions. 

Maisie watched the face working in the 
moonlight. 

“You’ve plenty of pennies now,” she said, 
soothingly. 

“I shall never get enough,” he began, with 
vicious emphasis. Then, laughing, “I shall al- 
ways be threepence short in my accounts.” 

“Why threepence?” 

“I carried a man’s bag once from Liverpool 
Street Station to Blackfriars Bridge. It was 
a sixpenny job, — you needn’t laugh ; indeed it 
was, — and I wanted the money desperately. He 
only gave me threepence; and he hadn’t even 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 141 


the decency to pay in silver. Whatever money 
I make, I shall never get that odd threepence 
out of the world.” 

This was not language befitting the man who 
had preached of the sanctity of work. It jarred 
on Maisie, who preferred her payment in ap- 
plause, which, since all men desire it, must be 
of the right. She hunted for her little purse 
and gravely took out a threepenny bit. 

“There it is,” she said. ‘Til pay you, Dickie ; 
and don’t worry any more ; it isn’t worth while. 
Are you paid ?” 

“I am,” said the very human apostle of fair 
craft, taking the coin. “I’m paid a thousand 
times, and we’ll close that account. It shall 
live on my watch-chain; and you’re an angel, 
Maisie.” 

“I’m very cramped, and I’m feeling a little 
cold. Good gracious! the cloak is all white, 
and so is your moustache! I never knew it 
was so chilly.” 

A light frost lay white on the shoulder of 
Dick’s ulster. He, too, had forgotten the state 
of the weather. They laughed together, and 
with that laugh ended all serious discourse. 

They ran inland across the waste to warm 
themselves, then turned to look at the glory 
of the full tide under the moonlight and the 


142 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


intense black shadows of the furze-bushes. It 
was an additional joy to Dick that Maisie could 
see color even as he saw it, — could see the 
blue in the white of the mist, the violet that 
is in grey palings, and all things else as they 
are, — not of one hue, but a thousand. And 
the moonlight came into Maisie’s soul, so that 
she, usually reserved, chattered of herself and 
of the things she took interest in, — of Kami, 
wisest of teachers, and of the girls in the studio 
— of the Poles, who will kill themselves with 
overwork if they are not checked; of the 
French who talk at great length of much more 
than they will ever accomplish; of the slov- 
enly English, who toil hopelessly and cannot 
understand that inclination does not imply 
power ; of the Americans, whose rasping voices 
in the hush of a hot afternoon strain tense- 
drawn nerves to breaking-point, and whose 
suppers lead to indigestion; of tempestuous 
Russians, neither to hold nor to bind, who tell 
the girls ghost stories till the girls shriek; of 
stolid Germans, who come to learn one thing, 
and, having mastered that much, stolidly go 
away and copy pictures forevermore. Dick lis- 
tened enraptured because it was Maisie who 
spoke. He knew the old life. 

“It hasn’t changed much,” he said. “Do they 
still steal colors at lunch-time?” 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 143 


“Not steal. Attract is the word. Of course 
they do. I’m good — I only attract ultramar- 
ine ; but there are students who’d attract flake- 
white/ ' 

“I’ve done it myself. You can’t help it when 
the palettes are hung up. Every color is com- 
mon property once it runs down, — even though 
you do start it with a drop of oil. It teaches 
people not to waste their tubes.” 

“I should like to attract some of your col- 
ors, Dick. Perhaps I might catch your success 
with them.” 

“I mustn’t say a bad word, but I should like 
to. What in the world, which you’ve just 
missed a lovely chance of seeing, does success 
or want of success, or a three-storied success, 
matter compared with — No, I won’t open that 
question again. It’s time to go back to town.” 

“I’m sorry, Dick, but” — 

“You’re much more interested in that than 
you are in me.” 

“I don’t know. I don’t think I am.” 

“What will you give me if I tell you a sure 
short-cut to everything you want, — the trouble 
and the fuss and the tangle and all the rest? 
Will you promise to obey me ?” 

“Of course.” 

“In the first place, you must never forget a 


144 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


meal because you happen to be at work. You 
forgot your lunch twice last week,” said Dick, 
at a venture, for he knew with whom he was 
dealing. 

“No, no, — only once, really.” 

“That’s bad enough. And you mustn’t take 
a cup of tea and a biscuit in place of a regular 
dinner, because dinner happens to be a trou- 
ble.” 

“You’re making fun of me!” 

“I never was more in earnest in my life. 
Oh, my love, my love, hasn’t it dawned on you 
yet what you are to me ? Here’s the whole earth 
in a conspiracy to give you a chill, or run over 
you, or drench you to the skin, or cheat you 
out of your money, or let you die of overwork 
and underfeeding, and I haven’t the mere right 
to look after you. Why, I don’t even know if 
you have sense enough to put on warm things 
when the weather’s cold.” 

“Dick, you’re the most awful boy to talk to 
— really! How do you suppose I managed 
when you were away ?” 

“I wasn’t here, and I didn’t know. But now 
I’m back I’d give everything I have for the 
right of telling you to come in out of the rain.” 

“Your success too?” 

This time it cost Dick a severe struggle to 
refrain from bad words. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 145 


“As Mrs. Jennett used to say, you’re a trial, 
Maisie ! You’ve been cooped up in the schools 
too long, and you think every one is looking 
at you. There aren’t twelve hundred people 
in the world who understand pictures. The 
others pretend and don’t care. Remember, I’ve 
seen twelve hundred men dead in toadstool- 
beds. It’s only the voice of the tiniest little 
fraction of people that makes success. The 
real world doesn’t care a tinker’s — doesn’t care 
a bit. For aught you or I know, every man 
in the world may be arguing with a Maisie of 
his own.” 

“Poor Maisie!” 

“Poor Dick, I think. Do you believe while 
he’s fighting for what’s dearer than his life he 
wants to look at a picture? And even if he 
did, and if all the world did, and a thousand 
million people rose up and shouted hymns to 
my honor and glory, would that make up to 
me for the knowledge that you were out shop- 
ping in the Edgware Road on a rainy day with- 
out an umbrella? Now we’ll go to the sta- 
tion.” 

“But you said on the beach” — persisted 
Maisie, with a certain fear. 

Dick groaned aloud : “Yes, I know what I 
said. My work is everything I have, or am, 
or hope to be, to me, and I believe I’ve learned 


146 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


the law that governs it; but I’ve some linger- 
ing sense of fun left, — though you’ve nearly 
knocked it out of me. I can just see that it 
isn’t everything to all the world. Do what I 
say, and not what I do.” 

Maisie was careful not to reopen debatable 
matters, and they returned to London joyous- 
ly. The terminus stopped Dick in the midst 
of an eloquent harangue on the beauties of ex- 
ercise. He would buy Maisie a horse, — such a 
horse as never yet bowed head to bit, — would 
stable it, with a companion, some twenty miles 
from London, and Maisie, solely for her 
health’s sake, should ride with him twice or 
thrice a week. 

“That’s absurd,” said she. “It wouldn’t be 
proper.” 

“Now, who in all London to-night would 
have sufficient interest or audacity to call us 
two to account for anything we chose to do?” 

Maisie looked at the lamps, the fog, and the 
hideous turmoil. Dick was right; but horse- 
flesh did not make for Art as she understood 
it. 

“You’re very nice sometimes, but you’re 
very foolish more times. I’m not going to let 
you give me horses, or take you out of your 
way to-night. I’ll go home by myself. Only 
I want you to promise me something. You 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 147 


won’t think any more about that extra three- 
pence, will you? Remember, you’ve been 
paid ; and I won’t allow you to be spiteful and 
do bad work for a little thing like that. You 
can be so big that you mustn’t be tiny.” 

This was turning the tables with a ven- 
geance. There remained only to put Maisie 
into her hansom. 

“Good-bye,” she said, simply. “You’ll come 
on Sunday. It has been a beautiful day, Dick. 
Why can’t it be like this always?” 

“Because love’s like line-work : you must go 
forward or backward ; you can’t stand still. By 
the way, go on with your line-work. Good- 
night, and, for my — for any sake, take care of 
yourself.” 

He turned to walk home, meditating. The 
day had brought him nothing that he hoped 
for, but — surely this was worth many days — it 
had brought him nearer to Maisie. The end 
was only a question of time, now, and the prize 
well worth the waiting. By instinct, once 
more, he turned to the river. 

“And she understood at once,” he said, 
looking at the water. “She found out my pet 
besetting sin on the spot, and paid it off. My 
God, how she understood ! And she said I was 
better than she was! Better than she was!” 
He laughed at the absurdity of the notion. “I 


148 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


wonder if girls guess at one-half a man’s life. 
They can’t, or — they wouldn’t marry us.” He 
took her gift out of his pocket, and considered 
it in the light of a miracle and a pledge of the 
comprehension that, one day, would lead to 
perfect happiness. Meantime, Maisie was 
alone in London, with none to save her from 
danger. And the packed wilderness was very 
full of danger. 

Dick made his prayer to Fate disjointedly 
after the manner of the heathen as he threw 
the piece of silver into the river. If any evil 
were to befall, let him bear the burden and let 
Maisie go unscathed, since the threepenny piece 
was dearest to him of all his possessions. It 
was a small coin in itself, but Maisie had given 
it, and the Thames held it, and surely the Fates 
would be bribed for this once. 

The drowning of the coin seemed to cut him 
free from thought of Maisie for the moment. 
He took himself off the bridge and went whist- 
ling to his chambers with a strong yearning 
for some man-talk and tobacco after his first 
experience of an entire day spent in the so- 
ciety of a woman. There was a stronger de- 
sire at his heart when there rose before him 
an unsolicited vision of the Barralong dipping 
deep and sailing free for the Southern Cross. 


CHAPTER VIII 


And these two, as I have told you, 

Were the friends of Hiawatha, 

Chibiabos, the musician, 

And the very strong man, Kwasind. 

— Hiawatha. 

Torpenhow was paging the last sheets of 
some manuscript, while the Nilghai, who had 
come for chess and remained to talk tactics, 
was reading through the first part, comment- 
ing scornfully the while. 

“It’s picturesque enough and it’s sketchy,” 
said he; “but as a serious consideration of af- 
fairs in Eastern Europe, it’s not worth much.” 

“It’s off my hands at any rate. . . . Thir- 

ty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine slips alto- 
gether, aren’t there? That should make be- 
tween eleven and twelve pages of valuable mis- 
information. Heigho!” Torpenhow shuffled 
the writing together and hummed — 

Young lambs to sell, young lambs to sell, 

If I’d as much money as I could tell, 

I never would cry, Young lambs to sell! 

Dick entered, self-conscious and a little de- 
149 


150 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


fiant, but in the best of tempers with all the 
world. 

“Back at last?” said Torpenhow. 

“More or less. What have you been do- 
ing?” 

“Work. Dickie, you behave as though the 
Bank of England were behind you. Here's 
Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday gone and you 
haven’t done a line. It’s scandalous.” 

“The notions come and go, my children — 
they come and go like our ’baccy,” he an- 
swered, filling his pipe. “Moreover,” he 
stooped to thrust a spill into the grate, “Apollo 
does not always stretch his — Oh, confound 
your clumsy jests, Nilghai!” 

“This is not the place to preach the theory 
of direct inspiration,” said the Nilghai, re- 
turning Torpenhow’s large and workmanlike 
bellows to their nail on the wall. “We believe 
in cobblers’ wax. La ! — where you sit down.” 

“If you weren’t so big and fat,” said Dick, 
looking round for a weapon, “I’d” — 

“No skylarking in my rooms. You two 
smashed half my furniture last time you threw 
the cushions about. You might have the de- 
cency to say How d’ you do ? to Binkie. Look 
at him.” 

Binkie had jumped down from the sofa and 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 15 1 


was fawning round Dick’s knee, and scratch- 
ing at his boots. 

“Dear man !” said Dickie, snatching him up, 
and kissing him on the black patch above his 
right eye. “Did urns was, Binks? Did that 
ugly Nilghai turn you off the sofa? Bite him, 
Mr. Binkie.” He pitched him on the Nilghai’s 
stomach, as the big man lay at ease, and Binkie 
pretended to destroy the Nilghai inch by inch, 
till a sofa cushion extinguished him, and pant- 
ing he stuck out his tongue at the company. 

“The Binkie-boy went for a walk this morn- 
ing before you were up, Torp. I saw him mak- 
ing love to the butcher at the corner when the 
shutters were being taken down — just as. if he 
hadn’t enough to eat in his own proper house,” 
said Dick. 

“Binks, is that a true bill ?” said Torpenhow 
severely. The little dog retreated under the 
sofa-cushion, and showed by the fat white back 
of him that he really had no further interest 
in the discussion. 

“’Strikes me that another disreputable dog 
went for a walk, too,” said the Nilghai. “What 
made you get up so early? Torp said you 
might be buying a horse?” 

“He knows it would need three of us for a 
serious business like that. No, I felt lonesome 


152 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


and unhappy, so I went out to look at the sea, 
and watch the pretty ships go by.” 

“Where did you go ?” 

“Somewhere on the Channel. Progly or 
Snigly, or some one horse watering-place was 
its name; Fve forgotten; but it was only two 
hours’ run from London and the ships went 
by.” 

“Did you see anything you knew ?” 

“Only the Barralong outward to Australia, 
and an Odessa grain-boat loaded down by the 
head. It was a thick day, but the sea smelt 
good.” 

“Wherefore put on one’s best trousers to 
see the Barralong ?” said Torpenhow, point- 
ing. 

“Because I’ve nothing except these things 
and my painting duds. Besides, I wanted to 
do honor to the sea.” 

“Did she make you feel restless?” asked the 
Nilghai, keenly. 

“Crazy. Don’t speak of it. I’m sorry I 
went.” 

Torpenhow and the Nilghai exchanged a 
look as Dick, stooping, busied himself among 
the former’s boots and trees. 

“These will do,” he said at last ; “I can’t say 
I think much of your taste in slippers, but the 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 153 


fit’s the thing.” He slipped his feet into a 
pair of sock-like sambhur-skin foot coverings, 
found a long chair, and lay at length. 

“They’re my own pet pair,” Torpenhow 
said. “I was just going to put them on my- 
self.” 

“All your reprehensible selfishness. Just 
because you see me happy for a minute, you 
want to worry me and stir me up. Find an- 
other pair.” 

“Good for you that Dick can’t wear your 
clothes, Torp. You two live communistically,” 
said the Nilghai. 

“Dick never has anything that I can wear. 
He’s only useful to sponge upon.” 

“Confound you, have you been rummaging 
round among my caches, then?” said Dick. “I 
put a sovereign in the tobacco- jar yesterday. 
How do you expect a man to keep his accounts 
properly if you” — 

Here the Nilghai began to laugh, and Tor- 
penhow joined him. 

“Hid a sovereign yesterday ! You’re no sort 
of a financier. You loaned me a fiver about 
a month back. Do you remember?” Torpen- 
how said. 

“Yes, of course.” 

“Do you remember that I paid it you ten 


154 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


days later, and you put it at the bottom of the 
tobacco?” 

“By Jove, did I? I thought it was in one 
of my color-boxes.” 

“You thought! About a week ago I went 
into your studio to get some ’baccy and found 
it.” 

“What did you do with it?” 

“Took the Nilghai to a theatre and fed him.” 

“You couldn’t feed the Nilghai under twice 
the money — not though you gave him Army 
beef. Well, I suppose I should have found it 
out sooner or later. What is there to laugh 
at?” 

“You’re a most amazing cuckoo in many di- 
rections,” said the Nilghai, still chuckling over 
the thought of the dinner. “Never mind. We 
had both been working very hard, and it was 
your unearned increment we spent, and as 
you’re only a loafer it didn’t matter.” 

“That’s pleasant — from the man who is 
bursting with my meat, too. I’ll get that din- 
ner back one of these days. Suppose we go 
to a theatre now.” 

“Put our boots on, — and dress , — and 
wash ?” The Nilghai spoke very lazily. 

“I withdraw the motion.” 

“Suppose, just for a change — as a startling 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 155 


variety, you know — we, that is to say we, get 
our charcoal and our canvas and go on with 
our work.” Torpenhow spoke pointedly, but 
Dick only wriggled his toes inside the soft 
leather moccasins. 

“What a one-idead clucker it is! If I had 
any unfinished figures on hand, I haven’t any 
model ; if I had my model, I haven’t any spray, 
and I never leave charcoal unfixed over night ; 
and if I had my spray and twenty photographs 
of backgrounds, I couldn’t do anything to- 
night. I don’t feel that way.” 

“Binkie-dog, he’s a lazy hog, isn’t he ?” said 
the Nilghai. 

“Very good, I will do some work,” said 
Dick, rising swiftly. “I’ll fetch the Nungapun- 
ga Book, and we’ll add another picture to the 
Nilghai Saga.” 

“Aren’t you worrying him a little too 
much?” asked the Nilghai, when Dick had left 
the room. 

“Perhaps, but I know what he can turn out 
if he likes. It makes me savage to hear him 
praised for past work when I know what he 
ought to do. You and I are arranged for” — 

“By Kismet and our own powers, more’s 
the pity. I have dreamed of a good deal.” 

“So have I, but we know our limitations 


156 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


now. I’m dashed if I know what Dick’s may 
be when he gives himself to his work. That’s 
what makes me so keen about him.” 

“And when all’s said and done, you will be 
put aside — quite rightly — for a female girl.” 

“I wonder. . . . Where do you think 

he has been to-day?” 

“To the sea. Didn’t you see the look in his 
eyes when he talked about her? He’s as rest- 
less as a swallow in autumn.” / 

“Yes; but did he go alone?” 

“I don’t know, and I don’t care, but he has 
the beginnings of the go-fever upon him. He 
wants to up-stakes and move out. There’s no 
mistaking the signs. Whatever he may have 
said before, he has the call upon him now.” 

“It might be his salvation,” Torpenhow 
said. 

“Perhaps — if you care to take the responsi- 
bility of being a saviour : I’m averse to tamper- 
ing with souls myself.” 

Dick returned with a great clasp sketch-book 
that the Nilghai knew well and did not love 
too much. In it Dick had drawn in his play- 
time all manner of moving incidents, experi- 
enced by himself or related to him by the others 
of all the four corners of the earth. But the 
wider range of the Nilghai’s body and life at- 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 157 


tracted him most. When truth failed here he 
fell back on fiction of the wildest, and rep- 
resented incidents in the Nilghai’s career that 
were unseemly, — his marriages with many 
African princesses, his shameless betrayal, for 
Arab wives, of army corps to the Madhi, his 
tattooment by skilled operators in Burmah, his 
interview (and his fears) with the yellow 
headsman in the blood-stained execution- 
ground of Canton, and finally, the passings of 
his spirit into the bodies of whales, elephants, 
and toucans. Torpenhow from time to time 
had added rhymed descriptions, and the whole 
was a curious piece of art, because Dick de- 
cided, having regard to the name of the book, 
which being interpreted means “naked,” that 
it would be wrong to draw the Nilghai with 
any clothes on, under any circumstances. Con- 
sequently the last sketch, representing that 
much-enduring man calling on the War Office 
to press his claims to the Egyptian medal, was 
hardly delicate. He settled himself comfort- 
ably at Torpenhow’s table and turned over the 
pages. 

“What a fortune you would have been to 
Blake, Nilghai !” he said. “There’s a succulent 
pinkness about some of these sketches that’s 
more than lifelike. 'The Nilghai surrounded 


158 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


while bathing by the Mahdieh’ — that was 
founded on fact, eh ?” 

“It was very nearly my last bath, you irrev- 
erent dauber. Has Binkie come into the Saga 
yet ?” 

“No; the Binkie-boy hasn’t done anything 
except eat and kill cats. Let’s see. Here you 
are as a stained-glass saint in a church. Deuced 
decorative lines about your anatomy; you 
ought to be grateful for being handed down 
to posterity in this way. Fifty years hence 
you’ll exist in rare and curious facsimiles at 
ten guineas each. What shall I try this time? 
The domestic life of the Nilghai ?” 

“’Hasn’t got any.” 

“The undomestic life of the Nilghai, then. 
Of course ! Mass-meeting of his wives in Traf- 
algar Square. That’s it. They came from the 
ends of the earth to attend Nilghai’s wedding 
to an English bride. This shall be in sepia. 
It’s a sweet material to work with.” 

“It’s a scandalous waste of time,” said Tor- 
penhow. 

“Don’t worry ; it keeps one’s hand in — spe- 
cially when you begin without the pencil.” He 
set to work rapidly. “That’s Nelson’s Column. 
Presently the Nilghai will appear shinning up 
it.” 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 159 


“Give him some clothes this time.” 

“Certainly — a veil and an orange-wreath, 
because he’s been married.” 

“Gad, that’s clever enough!” said Torpen- 
how, over his shoulder, as Dick brought out 
of the paper with three twirls of the brush a 
very fat back and laboring shoulder pressed 
against the stone. 

“Just imagine,” Dick continued, “if we could 
publish a few of these dear little things every 
time the Nilghai subsidizes a man who can 
write, to give the public an honest opinion of 
my pictures.” 

“Well, you’ll admit I always tell you when 
I have done anything of that kind. I know I 
can’t hammer you as you ought to be ham- 
mered, so I give the job to another. Young 
Maclagan, for instance” — 

“N-o — one half-minute, old man ; stick your 
hand out against the dark of the wall-paper — • 
you only burble and call me names. That left 
shoulder’s out of drawing. I must literally 
throw a veil over that. Where’s my pen-knife ? 
Well, what about Maclagan?” 

“I only gave him his riding-orders to — to 
lambast you on general principles for not pro- 
ducing work that will last.” 

“Whereupon that young fool,” — Dick threw 


160 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


back his head and shut one eye as he shifted 
the page under his hand, — “being left alone 
with an ink-pot and what he conceived were 
his own notions, went and spilled them both 
over me in the papers. You might have en- 
gaged a grown man for the business, Nilghai. 
How do you think the bridal veil looks now, 
Torp ?” 

“How the deuce do three dabs and two 
scratches make the stuff stand away from the 
body as it does?” said Torpenhow, to whom 
Dick’s methods were always new. 

“It just depends on where you put ’em. If 
Maclagan had known that much about his bus- 
iness he might have done better.” 

“Why don’t you put the damned dabs into 
something that will stay, then?” insisted the 
Nilghai, who had really taken considerable 
trouble in hiring for Dick’s benefit the pen of 
a young gentleman who devoted most of his 
waking hours to an anxious consideration of 
the aims and ends of Art, which, he wrote, 
was one and indivisible. 

“Wait a minute till I see how I am going to 
manage my procession of wives. You seem to 
have married extensively, and I must rough 
’em in with the pencil — Medes, Parthians, 
Edomites. . . Now, setting aside the 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 161 


weakness and the wickedness and — and the fat- 
headedness of deliberately trying to do work 
that will live, as they call it, I’m content with 
the knowledge that I’ve done my best up to 
date, and I shan’t do anything like it again for 
some hours at least — probably years. Most 
probably never.” 

“What! any stuff you have in stock your 
best work?” said Torpenhow. 

“Anything you’ve sold?” said the Nilghai. 

“Oh, no. It isn’t here and it isn’t sold. Bet- 
ter than that, it can’t be sold, and I don’t think 
any one knows where it is. I’m sure I don’t. 
. . . And yet more and more wives, on 

the north side of the square. Observe the vir- 
tuous horror of the lions !” 

“You may as well explain,” said Torpen- 
how, and Dick lifted his head from the pa- 
per. 

“The sea reminded me of it,” he said, slow- 
ly. “I wish it hadn’t. It weighs some few 
thousand tons — unless you cut it out with a 
cold chisel.” 

“Don’t be an idiot. You can’t pose with 
us here,” said the Nilghai. 

“There’s no pose in the matter at all. It’s 
a fact. I was loafing from Lima to Auckland 
in a big, old, condemned passenger-ship turned 


1 62 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


into a cargo-boat and owned by a second-hand 
Italian firm. She was a crazy basket. We 
were cut down to fifteen ton of coal a day, and 
we thought ourselves lucky when we kicked 
seven knots an hour out of her. Then we used 
to stop and let the bearings cool down, and 
wonder whether the crack in the shaft was 
spreading.” 

“Were you a steward or a stoker in those 
days ?” 

“I was flush for the time being, so I was a 
passenger, or else I should have been a stew- 
ard, I think,” said Dick, with perfect gravity, 
returning to the procession of angry wives. “I 
was the only other passenger from Lima, and 
the ship was half empty, and full of rats and 
cockroaches and scorpions.” 

“But what has this to do with the picture?” 

“Wait a minute. She had been in the China 
passenger trade and her lower deck had bunks 
for two thousand pigtails. Those were all tak- 
en down, and she was empty up to her nose, 
and the lights came through the port-holes — 
most annoying lights to work in till you got 
used to them. I hadn’t anything to do for 
weeks. The ship’s charts were in pieces and 
our skipper daren’t run south for fear of catch- 
ing a storm. So he did his best to knock all 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 163 


the Society Islands out of the water one by 
one, and I went into the lower deck, and did 
my picture on the port side as far forward 
in her as I could go. There was some brown 
paint and some green paint that they used for 
the boats, and some black paint for iron-work, 
and that was all I had.” 

“The passengers must have thought you 
mad.” 

“There was only one, and it was a woman; 
but it gave me the notion of my picture.” 

“What was she like?” said Torpenhow. 

“She was a sort of Negroid-Jewess-Cuban; 
with morals to match. She couldn’t read or 
write, and she didn’t want to, but she used to 
come down and watch me paint, and the skip- 
per didn’t like it, because he was paying her 
passage and had to be on the bridge occasion- 
ally.” 

“I see. That must have been cheerful.” 

“It was the best time I ever had. To begin 
with, we didn’t know whether we should go up 
or go down any minute where there was a sea 
on ; and when it was calm it was paradise ; and 
the woman used to mix the paints and talk 
broken English, and the skipper used to steal 
down every few minutes to the lower deck, be- 
cause he said he was afraid of fire. So, you 


1 64 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


see, we could never tell when we might be 
caught, and I had a splendid notion to work 
out in only three keys of color,” 

“What was the notion?” 

“Two lines in Poe — 

“Neither the angels in Heaven above nor the demons 
down under the sea. 

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul of the beau- 
tiful Annabel Lee. 

It came out of the sea — all by itself. I drew 
that fight, fought out in green water over the 
naked, choking soul, and the woman served 
as the model for the devils and the angels both 
— sea-devils and sea-angels, and the soul half 
drowned between them. It doesn’t sound 
much, but when there was a good light on the 
lower deck it looked very fine and creepy. It 
was seven by fourteen feet, all done in shift- 
ing light for shifting light.” 

“Did the woman inspire you much?” said 
Torpenhow. 

“She and the sea between them — immense- 
ly. There was a heap of bad drawing in that 
picture. I remember I went out of my way 
to foreshorten for sheer delight of doing it, 
and I foreshortened damnably, but for all that 
it’s the best thing I’ve ever done; and now I 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 165 


suppose the ship’s broken up or gone down. 
Whew! What a time that was!” 

“What happened after all?” 

“It all ended. They were loading her with 
wool when I left the ship, but even the steve- 
dores kept the picture clear to the last. The 
eyes of the demons scared them, I honestly be- 
lieve.” 

“And the woman?” 

“She was scared too when it was finished. 
She used to cross herself before she went down 
to look at it. Just three colors and no chance 
of getting any more, and the sea outside and 
unlimited love-making inside, and the fear of 
death atop of everything else, O Lord!” He 
had ceased to look at the sketch, but was star- 
ing straight in front of him across the room. 

“Why don’t you try something of the same 
kind now?” said the Nilghai. 

“Because those things come not by fasting 
and prayer. When I find a cargo-boat and a 
Jewess-Cuban and another notion and the same 
old life, I may.” 

“You won’t find them here,” said the Nilg- 
hai. 

“No, I shall not.” Dick shut the sketch-book 
with a bang. “This room’s as hot as an oven. 
Open the window, some one.” 


1 66 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


He leaned into the darkness, watching the 
greater darkness of London below him. The 
chambers stood much higher than the other 
houses, commanding a hundred chimneys — 
crooked cowls that looked like sitting cats as 
they swung round, and other uncouth brick and 
zinc mysteries supported by iron stanchions 
and clamped by S-pieces. Northward the 
lights of Piccadilly Circus and Leicester Square 
threw a copper-colored glare above the black 
roofs, and southward lay all the orderly lights 
of the Thames. A train rolled out across one 
of the railway bridges, and its thimder 
drowned for a minute the dull roar of the 
streets. The Nilghai looked at his watch and 
said shortly, “That’s the Paris night-mail. You 
can book from here to St. Petersburg if you 
choose.” v 

Dick crammed head and shoulders out of 
the window and looked across the river. Tor- 
penhow came to his side, while the Nilghai 
passed over quietly to the piano and opened 
it. Binkie, making himself as large as pos- 
sible, spread out upon the sofa with the air 
of one who is not to be lightly disturbed. 

“Well,” said the Nilghai to the two pairs 
of shoulders, “have you never seen this place 
before ?” 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 167 


A steam-tug on the river hooted as she 
towed her barges to wharf. Then the boom of 
the traffic came into the room. Torpenhow 
nudged Dick. “Good place to bank in-^bad 
place to bunk in, Dickie, isn’t it?” 

Dick’s chin was in his hand as he answered, 
in the words of a general not without fame, 
still looking out on the darkness — “ ‘My God, 
what a city to loot !’ ” 

Binkie found the night air tickling his whis- 
kers and sneezed plaintively. 

“We shall give the Binkie-dog a cold/’ said 
Torpenhow. “Come in,” and they withdrew 
their heads. “You’ll be buried in Kensal 
Green, Dick, one of these days, if it isn’t closed 
by the time you want to go there — buried with- 
in two feet of some one else, his wife and his 
family.” 

“Allah forbid ! I shall get away before that 
time comes. Give a man room to stretch his 
legs, Mr. Binkie.” Dick flung himself down 
on the sofa and tweaked Binkie’s velvet ears, 
yawning heavily the while. 

“You’ll find that wardrobe-case very much 
out of tune,” Torpenhow said to the Nilghai. 
“It’s never touched except by you.” 

“A piece of gross extravagance,” Dick 
grunted. “The Nilghai only comes when I’m 
out.” 


1 68 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“That’s because you’re always out. Howl, 
Nilghai, and let him hear.” 

The life of the Nilghai is fraud and slaughter, 

His writings are watered Dickens and water; 

But the voice of the Nilghai raised on high 
Makes even the Mahdieh glad to die! 

Dick quoted from Torpenhow’s letterpress in 
the Nungapunga Book. “How do they call 
moose in Canada, Nilghai?” 

The man laughed. Singing was his one 
polite accomplishment, as many Press-tents in 
far-off lands had known. 

“What shall I sing?” said he, turning in the 
chair. 

“ ‘Moll Roe in the Morning,’ ” said Torpen- 
how, at a venture. 

“No,” said Dick, sharply, and the Nilghai 
opened his eyes. The old chanty whereof he, 
among a very few, possessed all the words was 
not a pretty one, but Dick had heard it many 
times before without wincing. Without pre- 
lude he launched into that stately tune that calls 
together and troubles the hearts of the gipsies 
of the sea — 

Farewell and adieu to you, Spanish ladies, 
Farewell and adieu to you, ladies of Spain 

Dick turned uneasily on the sofa, for he could 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 169 


hear the bows of the Barralong crashing into 
the green seas on her way to the Southern 
Cross. Then came the chorus — 

We’ll rant and we’ll roar like true British sailors, 

We’ll rant and we’ll roar across the salt seas, 

Until we take soundings in the Channel of Old Eng- 
land 

From Ushant to Scilly ’tis forty-five leagues. 

“Thirty-five — thirty-five,” said Dick, petu- 
lantly. “Don’t tamper with Holy Writ. Go 
on, Nilghai.” 

The first land we made it was called the Deadman, 

and they sang to the end very vigorously. 

“That would be a better song if her head 
were turned the other way — to the Ushant 
light, for instance,” said the Nilghai. 

“Flinging its arms about like a mad wind- 
mill,” said Torpenhow. “Give us something 
else, Nilghai. You’re in fine fog-horn form 
to-night.” 

“Give us the ‘Ganges Pilot’ : you sang that 
in the square the night before El-Maghrib. By 
the way, I wonder how many of the chorus 
are alive to-night,” said Dick. 

Torpenhow considered for a minute. “By 
Jove! I believe only you and I. Raynor, 
Vickery and Deenes — all dead ; Vincent caught 
small-pox in Cairo, carried it here and died of 
it. Yes, only you and I and the Nilghai.” 


170 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“Umph ! And yet the men here who’ve done 
their work in a well- warmed studio all their 
lives, with a policeman at each corner, say that 
I charge too much for my pictures.” 

“They are buying your work, not your in- 
surance policies, dear child,” said the Nilghai. 

“I gambled with one to get at the other. 
Don’t preach. Go on with the 'Pilot. ’ Where 
in the world did you get that song?” 

“On a tombstone,” said the Nilghai. “On 
a tombstone in a distant land. I made it an 
accompaniment with heaps of bass chords.” 

“O, Vanity! Begin.” And the Nilghai 
began — 

“I have slipped my cable, messmates, I’m drifting 
down with the tide, 

I have my sailing orders, while ye at anchor ride. 

And never on fair June morning have I put out to sea 
With clearer conscience or better hope, or a heart more 
light and free. 

“Shoulder to shoulder, Joe, my boy, into the crowd 
like a wedge 

Strike with the hangers, messmates, but do not cut 
with the edge. 

Cries Charnock, ‘Scatter the fagots, double that Brah- 
min in two, 

The tall pale widow for me, Joe, the little brown girl 
for you!’ 

“Young Joe (you’re nearing sixty), why is your hide 
so dark? 

Katie has soft fair blue eyes, who blackened yours? — 
Why, hark!” 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 171 


They were all singing now, Dick with the 
roar of the wind of the open sea about his ears 
as the deep bass voice let itself go. 


“The morning gun — Ho, steady ! — the arquebuses to 
me ! 

I ha’ sounded the Dutch High Admiral’s heart as my 
lead doth sound the sea. 

“Sounding, sounding the Ganges, floating down with 
the tide, 

Moor me close to Charnock, next to my nut-brown 
bride. 

My blessing to Kate at Fairlight — Holwell, my thanks 
to you; 

Steady! We steer for Heaven, through sand-drifts 
cold and blue.” 

“Now what is there in that nonsense to 
make a man restless?” said Dick, hauling Bink- 
ie from his feet to his chest. 

“It depends on the man,” said Torpenhow. 

“The man who has been down to look at the 
sea,” said the Nilghai. 

“I didn’t know she was going to upset me 
in this fashion.” 

“That’s what men say when they go to say 
good-bye to a woman. It’s more easy though 
to get rid of three women than a piece of one’s 
life and surroundings.” 

“But a woman can be” — began Dick, un- 
guardedly. 


172 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“A piece of one’s life,” continued Torpen- 
how. “No, she can’t.” His face darkened for 
a moment. “She says she w?nts to sympathize 
with you and help you in your work, and every- 
thing else that clearly a man must do for him- 
self. Then she sends round five notes a day 
to ask why the dickens you haven’t been wast- 
ing your time with her.” 

“Don’t generalize,” said the Nilghai. “By 
the time you arrive at five notes a day you must 
have gone through a good deal and behaved 
accordingly. ’Shouldn’t begin these things, my 
son.” 

“I shouldn’t have gone down to the sea,” 
said Dick, just a little anxious to change the 
conversation. “And you shouldn’t have sung.” 

“The sea isn’t sending you five notes a day,” 
said the Nilghai. 

“No, but I’m fatally compromised. She’s 
an enduring old hag, and I’m sorry I ever met 
her. Why wasn’t I born and bred and dead 
in a three-pair back ?” 

“Hear him blaspheming his first love ! Why 
in the world shouldn’t you listen to her?” said 
Torpenhow. 

Before Dick could reply the Nilghai lifted 
up his voice with a shout that shook the win- 
dows, in “The Men of the Sea,” that begins, 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


173 


as all know, “The sea is a wicked old woman,” 
and after racing through eight lines whose 
imagery is truthful, ends in a refrain, slow as 
the clacking of a capstan when the boat comes 
unwillingly up to the bars where the men sweat 
and tramp in the shingle. 

“ ‘Ye that bore us, O restore us ! 

She is kinder than ye; 

For the call is on our heart-strings !’ 

Said The Men of the Sea.” 

The Nilghai sang that verse twice, with sim- 
ple craft, intending that Dick should hear. But 
Dick was waiting for the farewell of the men 
to their wives. 

‘“Ye that love us, can ye move us? 

She is dearer than ye; 

And your sleep will be the sweeter/ 

Said The Men of the Sea.” 

The rough words beat like the blows of the 
waves on the bows of the rickety boat from 
Lima in the days when Dick was mixing 
paints, making love, drawing devils and angels 
in the half dark, and wondering whether the 
next minute would place the Italian captain’s 
knife between his shoulder-blades. And the 
go-fever, which is more real than many doc- 
tors’ diseases, waked and raged, urging him 
who loved Maisie beyond anything in the 


174 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


world, to go away and taste the old hot, un- 
regenerate life again, — to scuffle, swear, gam- 
ble, and love light loves with his fellows; to 
take ship and know the sea once more, and by 
her beget pictures ; to talk to Binat among the 
sands of Port Said while Yellow ’Tina mixed 
the drinks; to hear the crackle of musketry, 
and see the smoke roll outward, thin and thick- 
en again till the shining black faces came 
through, and in that hell every man was strict- 
ly responsible for his own head, and his own 
alone, and struck with an unfettered arm. It 
was impossible, utterly impossible, but — 

“ ‘Oh, our fathers, in the churchyard, 

She is older than ye, 

And our graves will be the greener/ 

Said The Men of the Sea.” 

“What is there to hinder?” said Torpenhow, 
in the long hush that followed the song. 

“You said a little time since that you 
wouldn’t come for a walk round the world, 
Torp.” 

“That was months ago, and I only objected 
to your making money for traveling expenses. 
You’ve shot your bolt here and it has gone 
home. Go away and do some work, and see 
some things.” 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 175 


“Get some of the fat off you; you’re dis- 
gracefully out of condition,” said the Nilghai, 
making a plunge from the chair and grasping 
a handful of Dick generally over the right 
ribs. “Soft as putty — pure tallow born of over- 
feeding. Train it off, Dickie.” 

“We’re all equally gross, Nilghai. Next 
time you have to take the field you’ll sit down, 
wink your eyes, gasp, and die in a fit.” 

“Never mind. You go away on a ship. Go 
to Lima again, or to Brazil. There’s always 
trouble in South America.” 

“Do you suppose I want to be told where to 
go? Great Heavens, the only difficulty is to 
know where I’m to stop. But I shall stay 
here, as I told you before.” 

“Then you’ll be buried in Kensal Green and 
turn into adipocere with the others,” said Tor- 
penhow. “Are you thinking of commissions 
in hand? Pay forfeit and go. You’ve money 
enough to travel as a king if you please.” 

“You’ve the grisliest notions of amusement, 
Torp. I think I see myself shipping first class 
on a six-thousand-ton hotel, and asking the 
third engineer what makes the engines go 
round, and whether it isn’t very warm in the 
stokehold. Ho ! ho ! I should ship as a loafer 
if ever I shipped at all, which I’m not going 


176 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


to do. I shall compromise, and go for a small 
trip to begin with.” 

“That’s something at any rate. Where will 
you go?” said Torpenhow. “It would do you 
all the good in the world, old man.” 

The Nilghai saw the twinkle in Dick’s eye 
and refrained from speech. 

“I shall go in the first place to Rathray’s 
stable, where I shall hire one horse, and take 
him very carefully as far as Richmond Hill. 
Then I shall walk him back again, in case he 
should accidentally burst into a lather and 
make Rathray angry. I shall do that to-mor- 
row, for the sake of air and exercise.” 

“Bah!” Dick had barely time to throw up 
his arm and ward off the cushion that the dis- 
gusted Torpenhow heaved at his head. 

“Air and exercise indeed,” said the Nilghai, 
sitting down heavily on Dick. “Let’s give him 
a little of both. Get the bellows, Torp.” 

At this point the conference broke up in dis- 
order, because Dick would not open his mouth 
till the Nilghai held his nose fast, and there 
was some trouble in forcing the nozzle of the 
bellows between his teeth; and even when it 
was there he weakly tried to puff against the 
force of the blast, and his cheeks blew up with 
a great explosion; and the enemy becoming 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 177 


helpless with laughter he so beat them over 
the head with a soft sofa-cushion that that be- 
came unsewn and distributed its feathers, and 
Binkie, interfering in Torpenhow’s interests, 
was bundled into the half-empty bag and ad- 
vised to scratch his way out, which he did af- 
ter a while, traveling rapidly up and down 
the floor in the shape of an agitated green 
haggis, and when he came out looking for sat- 
isfaction, the three pillars of his world were 
picking feathers out of their hair. 

“A prophet has no honor in his own coun- 
try,” said Dick, ruefully, dusting his knees. 
“This filthy fluff will never brush off my bags.” 

“It was all for your good,” said the Nilghai. 
“’Nothing like air and exercise.” 

“All for your good,” said Torpenhow, not 
in the least with reference to past clowning. 
“It would let you focus things at their proper 
worth and prevent your becoming slack in this 
hot-house of a town. Indeed it would, old 
man. I shouldn’t have spoken if I hadn’t 
thought so. Only, you make a joke of every- 
thing.” 

“Before God I do no such thing,” said Dick, 
quickly and earnestly. “You don’t know me 
if you think that.” 

“J don’t think it,” said the Nilghai. 


178 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“How can fellows like ourselves, who know 
what life and death really mean, dare to make 
a joke of anything? I know we pretend it, to 
save ourselves from breaking down or going 
to the other extreme. Can’t I see, old man, 
how you’re always anxious about me, and try 
to advise me to make my work better ? Do you 
suppose I don’t think about that myself? But 
you can’t help me — you can’t help me — not 
even you. I must play my own hand alone in 
my own way.” 

“Hear, hear,” from the Nilghai. 

“What’s the one thing in the Nilghai Saga 
that I’ve never drawn in the Nungapunga 
Book?” Dick continued to Torpenhow, who 
was a little astonished at the outburst. 

Now there was one blank page in the book 
given over to the sketch that Dick had not 
drawn of the crowning exploit in the Nilghai ’s 
life; when that man, being young and forget- 
ting that his body and bones belonged to the 
paper that employed him, had ridden over sun- 
burned slippery grass in the rear of Bredow’s 
brigade on the day that the troopers flung 
themselves at Canrobert’s artillery, and for 
aught they knew twenty battalions in front, 
to save the battered 24th German Infantry, to 
give time to decide the fate of Vionville, and to 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 179 


learn ere their remnant came back to Flavigay 
that cavalry can attack and crumple and break 
unshaken infantry. Whenever he was inclined 
to think over a life that might have been bet- 
ter, an income that might have been larger, 
and a soul that might have been considerably 
cleaner, the Nilghai would comfort himself 
with the thought, “I rode with Bredow’s bri- 
gade at Vionville,” and take heart for any less- 
er battle the next day might bring. 

“I know,” he said, very gravely. “I was 
always glad that you left it out.” 

“I left it out because Nilghai taught me 
what the German army learned then, and what 
Schmidt taught their cavalry. I don’t know 
German. What is it? Take care of the time 
and the dressing will take care of itself.’ I 
must ride my own line to my own beat, old 
man.” 

“Tempo ist richtung. You’ve learned your 
lesson well,” said the Nilghai. “He must go 
alone. He speaks truth, Torp.” 

“Maybe I’m as wrong as I can be — hideous- 
ly wrong. I must find that out for myself, as 
I have to think things out for myself, but I 
daren’t turn my head to dress by the next man. 
It hurts me a great deal more than you know 
not to be able to go, but I cannot, that’s all. 


180 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


I must do my own work and live my own life 
in my own way, because I’m responsible for 
both. Only don’t think I frivol about it, Torp. 
I have my own matches and sulphur, and I’ll 
make my own hell, thanks.” 

There was an uncomfortable pause. Then 
Torpenhow said blandly, /‘What did the Gov- 
ernor of North Carolina say to the Governor 
of South Carolina?” 

“Excellent notion. It is a long time between 
drinks. There are the makings of a very fine 
prig in you, Dick,” said the Nilghai. 

“I’ve liberated my mind, estimable Binkie, 
with the feathers in his mouth.” Dick picked 
up the still indignant one and shook him ten- 
derly. “You’re tied up in a sack and made 
to run about blind, Binkie-wee, without any 
reason, and it has hurt your little feelings. 
Never mind. Sic volo, sic jubeo, stet pro ra- 
tione voluntas , and don’t sneeze in my eye be- 
cause I talk Latin. Good-night.” 

He went out of the room. 

“That’s distinctly one for you,” said the Nil- 
ghai. “I told you it was hopeless to meddle 
with him. He’s not pleased.” 

“He’d swear at me if he weren’t. I can’t 
make it out. He has the go-fever upon him 
and he won’t go. I only hope that he mayn’t 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 181 


have to go some day when he doesn’t want to,” 
said Torpenhow. 

****** 

In his own room Dick was settling a ques- 
tion with himself — and the question was 
whether all the world, and all that was therein, 
and a burning desire to exploit both, was worth 
one threepenny piece thrown into the Thames. 

“It came of seeing the sea, and I’m a cur to 
think about it,” he decided. “After all the 
honeymoon will be that tour — with reserva- 
tions; only . . . only I didn’t realize that 

the sea was so strong. I didn’t feel it so much 
when I was with Maisie. These damnable 
songs did it. He’s beginning again.” 

But it was only Herrick’s Nightpiece to Julia 
that the Nilghai sang, and before it was ended 
Dick reappeared on the threshold, not alto- 
gether clothed indeed, but in his right mind, 
thirsty and at peace. 

The mood had come and gone with the ris- 
ing and the falling of the tide by Fort Keel- 


CHAPTER IX 


“If I have taken the common clay 
And wrought it cunningly 
In the shape of a god that was digged a clod, 

The greater honor to me.” 

“If thou hast taken the common clay, 

And thy hands be not free 
From the taint of the soil, thou has made thy spoil 
The greater shame to thee.” 

— The Two Potters. 

He did no work of any kind for the rest of 
the week. Then came another Sunday. He 
dreaded and longed for the day always, but 
since the red-haired girl had sketched him there 
was rather more dread than desire in his mind. 

He found that Maisie had entirely neglected 
his suggestions about line-work. She had gone 
off at score filled with some absurd notion for 
a “fancy head.” It cost Dick something to 
command his temper. 

“What’s the good of suggesting anything?” 
he said pointedly. 

182 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 183 


“Ah, but this will be a picture, — a real pic- 
ture; and I know that Kami will let me send 
it to the Salon. You don’t mind, do you?” 

“I suppose not. But you won’t have time 
for the Salon.” 

Maisie hesitated a little. She even felt un- 
comfortable. 

“We’re going over to France a month soon- 
er because of it. I shall get the idea sketched 
out here and work it up at Kami’s.” 

Dick’s heart stood still, and he came very 
near to being disgusted with his queen who 
could do no wrong. “Just when I thought 
I had made some headway, she goes off chasing 
butterflies. It’s too maddening!” 

There was no possibility of arguing, for the 
red-haired girl was in the studio. Dick could 
only look unutterable reproach. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, “and I think you make 
a mistake. But what’s the idea of your new 
picture ?” 

“I took it from a book.” 

“That’s bad, to begin with. Books aren’t 
the places for pictures. And” — 

“It’s this,” said the red-haired girl behind 
him. “I was reading it to Maisie the other 
day from The City of Dreadful Night. D’you 
know the book?” 


1 84 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“A little. I am sorry I spoke. There are 
pictures in it. What has taken her fancy ?” 
“The description of the Melancolia — 

“Her folded wings as of a mighty eagle, 

But all too impotent to lift the regal 
Robustness of her earth-born strength and pride.” 

And here again. ( Maisie, get the tea, dear. ) 

“The forehead charged with baleful thoughts and 
dreams, 

The household bunch of keys, the housewife’s gown, 
Voluminous indented, and yet rigid 
As though a shell of burnished metal frigid, 

Her feet thick-shod to tread all weakness down.” 

There was no attempt to conceal the scorn 
of the lazy voice. Dick winced. 

“But that has been done already by an ob- 
scure artist of the name of Durer,” said he. 
“How does the poem run? — 

“Three centuries and threescore years ago, 

With phantasies of his peculiar thought. 

You might as well try to rewrite Hamlet. It 
will be waste of time.” 

“No, it won’t,” said Maisie, putting down 
the teacups with clatter to reassure herself. 
“And I mean to do it. Can’t you see what a 
beautiful thing it would make?” 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 185 


“How in perdition can one do work when 
one hasn’t had the proper training? Any fool 
can get a notion. It needs training to drive 
the thing through, — training and conviction; 
not rushing after the first fancy.” Dick spoke 
between his teeth. 

“You don’t understand,” said Maisie. “I 
think I can do it.” 

Again the voice of the girl behind him — 

“Baffled and beaten back, she works on still; 

Weary and sick of soul, she works the more. 
Sustained by her indomitable will, 

The hands shall fashion, and the brain shall pore, 
And all her sorrow shall be turned to labor— 

I fancy Maisie means to embody herself in 
the picture.” 

“Sitting on a throne of rejected pictures? 
No, I shan’t, dear. The notion in itself has 
fascinated me. — Of course you don’t care for 
fancy heads, Dick. I don’t think you could do 
them. You like blood and bones.” 

“That’s a direct challenge. If you can do 
a Melancolia that isn’t merely a sorrowful fe- 
male head, I can do a better one; and I will, 
too. What d’you know about Melancolias ?” 
Dick firmly believed that he was even then 
tasting three-quarters of all the sorrow in the 
world. 


1 86 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“She was a woman,” said Maisie, “and she 
suffered a great deal, — till she could suffer no 
more. Then she began to laugh at it all, and 
then I painted her and sent her to the Salon.” 

The red-haired girl rose up and left the 
room, laughing. 

Dick looked at Maisie humbly and hopeless- 

!y- 

“Never mind about the picture,” he said. 
“Are you really going back to Kami’s a month 
before your time?” 

“I must, if I want to get the picture done.” 

“And that’s all you want?” 

“Of course. Don’t be stupid, Dick.” 

“You haven’t the power. You have only 
the ideas — the ideas and the little cheap im- 
pulses. How you could have kept at your work 
for ten years steadily is a mystery to me. So 
you are really going, — a month before you 
need?” 

“I must do my work.” 

“Your work — bah! . . . No, I didn’t 
mean that. It’s all right, dear. Of course you 
must do your work, and — I think I’ll say good- 
bye for this week.” 

“Won’t you even stay for tea?” 

“No, thank you. Have I your leave to go, 
dear? There’s nothing more you particularly 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 187 

want me to do, and the line-work doesn’t mat- 
ter.” 

“I wish you could stay, and then we could 
talk over my picture. If only one single pic- 
ture’s a success it draws attention to all the 
others. I know some of my work is good, if 
only people could see. And you needn’t have 
been so rude about it.” 

“I’m sorry. We’ll talk the Melancolia over 
some one of the other Sundays. There are 
four more — yes, one, two, three, four — before 
you go. Good-bye, Maisie.” 

Maisie stood by the studio window, think- 
ing, till the red-haired girl returned, a little 
white at the corners of her lips. 

“Dick’s gone off,” said Maisie. “Just when 
I wanted to talk about the picture. Isn’t it 
selfish of him?” 

Her companion opened her lips as if to 
speak, shut them again, and went on reading 
The City of Dreadful Night. 

Dick was in the Park, walking round and 
round a tree that he had chosen as his confi- 
dante for many Sundays past. He was swear- 
ing audibly, and when he found that the in- 
firmities of the English tongue hemmed in his 
rage, he sought consolation in Arabic, which 
is expressly designed for the use of the afflicted. 


1 88 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


He was not pleased with the reward of his pa- 
tient service; nor was he pleased with himself; 
and it was long before he arrived at the propo- 
sition that the queen could do no wrong. 

“It’s a losing game,” he said. “I’m worth 
nothing when a whim of hers is in question. 
But in a losing game at Port Said we used to 
double the stakes and go on. She do a Melan- 
colia! She hasn’t the power, or the insight 
or the training. Only the desire. She’s cursed 
with the curse of Reuben. She won’t do line- 
work, because it means real work ; and yet she’s 
stronger than I am. I’ll make her understand 
that I can beat her on her own Melancolia. 
Even then she wouldn’t care. She says I can 
only do blood and bones. I don’t believe she 
has blood in her veins. All the same I love 
her; and I must go on loving her; and if I 
can humble her inordinate vanity I will. I’ll 
do a Melancolia that shall be something like 
a Melancolia, — 'the Melancolia that transcends 
all wit.’ I’ll do it at once, con — bless her.” 

He discovered that the notion would not 
come to order, and that he could not free his 
mind for an hour from the thought of Maisie’s 
departure. He took very small interest in her 
rough studies for the Melancolia when she 
showed them next week. The Sundays were 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 189 


racing past, and the time was at hand when all 
the church bells in London could not ring Mai- 
sie back to him. Once or twice he said some- 
thing to Binkie about “hermaphroditic futili- 
ties, ” but the little dog received so many con- 
fidences both from Torpenhow and Dick that 
he did not trouble his tulip-ears to listen. 

Dick was permitted to see the girls off. They 
were going by the Dover night-boat ; and they 
hoped to return in August. It was then Feb- 
ruary, and Dick felt that he was being hardly 
used. Maisie was so busy stripping the small 
house across the Park, and packing her can- 
vases, that she had no time for thought. Dick 
went down to Dover and wasted a day there 
fretting over a wonderful possibility. Would 
Maisie at the very last allow him one small 
kiss? He reflected that he might capture her 
by the strong arm, as he had seen women cap- 
tured in the Southern Soudan, and lead her 
away; but Maisie would never be led. She 
would turn her grey eyes upon him and say, 
“Dick, how selfish you are!” Then his cour- 
age would fail him. It would be better, after 
all, to beg for that kiss. 

Maisie looked more than usually kissable as 
she stepped from the night-mail on to the 
windy pier, in a grey waterproof and a little 


190 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


grey cloth traveling-cap. The red-haired girl 
was not so lovely. Her green eyes were hol- 
low and her lips were dry. Dick saw the trunks 
aboard, and went to Maisie’s side in the dark- 
ness under the bridge. The mail-bags were 
thundering into the forehold, and the red- 
haired girl was watching them. 

“You’ll have a rough passage to-night,” said 
Dick. “It’s blowing outside. I suppose I may 
come over and see you if I’m good ?” 

“You mustn’t. I shall be busy. At least, if 
I want you I’ll send for you. But I shall write 
from Vitry-sur-Marne. I shall have heaps of 
things to consult you about. Oh, Dick, you 
have been so good to me ! — so good to me !” 

“Thank you for that, dear. It hasn’t made 
any difference, has it?” 

“I can’t tell a fib. It hasn’t — in that way. 
But don’t think I’m not grateful.” 

“Damn the gratitude!” said Dick, huskily, 
to the paddle-box. 

“What’s the use of worrying? You know 
I should ruin your life, and you’d ruin mine, 
as things are now. You remember what you 
said when you were so angry that day in the 
Park ? One of us has to be broken. Can’t you 
wait till that day comes?” 

“No, love. I want you unbroken — all to 
myself.” 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 191 


Maisie shook her head. “My poor Dick, 
what can I say?” 

“Don’t say anything. Give me a kiss ? 
Only one kiss, Maisie. I’ll swear I won’t take 
any more. You might as well, and then I can 
be sure you’re grateful.” 

Maisie put her cheek forward, and Dick 
took his reward in the darkness. It was only 
one kiss, but, since there was no time-limit 
specified, it was a long one. Maisie wrenched 
herself free angrily, and Dick stood abashed 
and tingling from head to heel. 

“Good-bye, darling. I didn’t mean to scare 
you. I’m sorry. Only — keep well and do good 
work, — specially the Melancolia. I’m going 
to do one, too. Remember me to Kami, and be 
careful what you drink. Country drinking- 
water is bad everywhere, but it’s worse in 
France. Write to me if you want anything, 
and good-bye. Say good-bye to the what-you- 
call-um girl, and — can’t I have another kiss? 
No. You’re quite right. Good-bye.” 

A shout told him that it was not seemly to 
charge up the mail-bag incline. He reached 
the pier as the steamer began to move off, and 
he followed her with his heart. 

“And there’s nothing — nothing in the wide 
world — to keep us apart except her obstinacy. 


192 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


These Calais night-boats are much too small. 
I’ll get Torp to write to the papers about it. 
She’s beginning to pitch already.” 

Maisie stood where Dick had left her till 
she heard a little gasping cough at her elbow. 
The red-haired girl’s eyes were alight with 
cold flame. 

“He kissed you!” she said. “How could 
you let him, when he wasn’t anything to you? 
How dared you take a kiss from him! Oh, 
Maisie, let’s go to the ladies’ cabin. I’m sick, 
— deadly sick.” 

“We aren’t into open water yet. Go down, 
dear, and I’ll stay here. I don’t like the smell 
of the engines. . . . Poor Dick! He de- 

served one, — only one. But I didn’t think he’d 
frighten me so.” 

Dick returned to town next day just in time 
for lunch, for which he had telegraphed. To 
his disgust, there were only empty plates in 
the studio. He lifted up his voice like the 
bears in the fairy-tale, and Torpenhow en- 
tered, looking very guilty. 

“H’sh !” said he. “Don’t make such a noise. 
I took it. Come into my rooms, and I ’ll show 
you why.” 

Dick paused amazed at the threshold, for 
on Torpenhow’s sofa lay a girl asleep and 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 193 


breathing heavily. The little cheap sailor-hat, 
the blue-and-white dress, fitter for June than 
for February, dabbled with mud at the skirts, 
the jacket trimmed with imitation Astrakhan 
and ripped at the shoulder-seams, the one-and- 
elevenpenny umbrella, and, above all, the dis- 
graceful condition of the kid-topped boots, de- 
clared all things. 

“Oh, I say, old man, this is too bad! You 
mustn’t bring this sort up here. They steal 
things from the rooms.” 

“It looks bad, I admit, but I was coming in 
after lunch, and she staggered into the hall. I 
thought she was drunk at first, but it was col- 
lapse. I couldn’t leave her as she was, so I 
brought her up here and gave her your lunch. 
She was fainting from want of food. She 
went fast asleep the minute she had finished.” 

“I know something of that complaint. 
She’s been living on sausages, I suppose. 
Torp, you should have handed her over to a 
policeman for presuming to faint in a respect- 
able house. Poor little wretch ! Look at that 
face! There isn’t an ounce of immorality in 
it. Only folly, — slack, fatuous, feeble, futile 
folly. It’s a typical head. D’you notice how 
the skull begins to show through the flesh pad- 
ding on the face and cheekbone ?” 


194 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 

“What a cold-blooded barbarian it is ! Don’t 
hit a woman when she’s down. Can’t we do 
anything? She was simply dropping with 
starvation. She almost fell into my arms, and 
when she got to the food she ate like a wild 
beast. It was horrible.” 

“I ean give her money, which she would 
probably spend in drinks. Is she going to 
sleep forever?” 

The girl opened her eyes and glared at the 
men between terror and effrontery. 

“Feeling better?” said Torpenhow. 

“Yes. Thank you. There aren’t many 
gentlemen that are as kind as you are. Thank 
you.” 

“When did you leave service?” said Dick, 
who had been watching the scarred and 
chapped hands. 

“How did you know I was in service? I 
was. General servant. I didn’t like it.” 

“And how do you like being your own mis- 
tress ?” 

“Do I look as if I liked it?” 

“I suppose not. One moment. Would you 
be good enough to turn your face to the win- 
dow ?” 

The girl obeyed, and Dick watched her face 
keenly, — so keenly that she made as if to hide 
behind Torpenhow. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 195 


“ The eyes have it,” said Dick, walking up 
and down. “They are superb eyes for my 
business. And, after all, every head depends 
on the eyes. This has been sent from heaven 
to make up for — what was taken away. Now 
the weekly strain’s off my shoulders, I can get 
to work in earnest. Evidently sent from 
heaven. Yes. Raise your chin a little, please.” 

“Gently, old man, gently. You’re scaring 
somebody out of her wits,” said Torpenhow, 
who could see the girl trembling. 

“Don’t let him hit me ! Oh, please don’t let 
him hit me ! I’ve been hit cruel to-day because 
I spoke to a man. Don’t let him look at me 
like that ! He’s reg’lar wicked, that one. 
Don’t let him look at me like that, neither! 
Oh, I feel as if I hadn’t nothing on when he 
looks at me like that !” 

The overstrained nerves in the frail body 
gave way, and the girl wept like a little child 
and began to scream. Dick threw open the 
window, and Torpenhow flung the door back. 

“There you are,” said Dick, soothingly. 
“My friend here can call for a policeman, and 
you can run through that door. Nobody is 
going to hurt you.” 

The girl sobbed convulsively for a few min- 
utes, and then tried to laugh. 


196 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“Nothing in the world to hurt you. Now 
listen to me for a minute. I’m what they call 
an artist by profession. You know what art- 
ists do?” 

“They draw the things in red and black ink 
on the pop-shop labels.” 

“I dare say. I haven’t risen to pop-shop 
labels yet. Those are done by the Academi- 
cians. I want to draw your head.” 

“What for?” 

“Because it’s pretty. That is why you will 
come to the room across the landing three 
times a week at eleven in the morning, and 
I’ll give you three quid a week just for sitting 
still and being drawn. And there’s a quid on 
account.” 

“For nothing? Oh, my!” The girl turned 
the sovereign in her hand, and with more fool- 
ish tears ; “Ain’t neither o’ you two gentlemen 
afraid of my bilking you?” 

“No. Only ugly girls do that. Try and re- 
member this place. And, by the way, what’s 
your name?” 

“I’m Bessie, — Bessie — It’s no use giving 
the rest. Bessie Broke, — Stone-broke if you 
like. What’s your names? But there, — no 
one ever gives the real ones.” 

Dick consulted Torpenhow with his eyes. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 197 


“My name’s Heldar, and my friend’s called 
Torpenhow; and you must be sure to come 
here. Where do you live?” 

“South-the- water, — one room, — five and 
sixpence a week. Aren’t you making fun of 
me about that three quid?” 

“You’ll see later on. And, Bessie, next 
time you come, remember, you needn’t wear 
that paint. It’s bad for the skin, and I have 
all the colors you’ll be likely to need.” 

Bessie withdrew, scrubbing her cheek with a 
ragged pocket-handkerchief. The two men 
looked at each other. 

“You’re a man,” said Torpenhow. 

“I’m afraid I’ve been a fool. It isn’t our 
business to run about the earth reforming Bes- 
sie Brokes. And a woman of any kind has no 
right on this landing.” 

“Perhaps she won’t come back.” 

“She will if she thinks she can get food and 
warmth here. I know she will, worse luck. 
But remember, old man, she isn’t a woman: 
she’s my model; and be careful.” 

“The idea! She’s a dissolute little scare- 
crow, — a gutter-snippet and nothing more.” 

“So you think. Wait till she has been fed 
a little and freed from fear. That fair type re- 
covers itself very quickly. You won’t know 


1 98 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


her in a week or two, when that abject fear 
has died out of her eyes. She’ll be too happy 
and smiling for my purposes.” 

“But surely you’re taking her out of char- 
ity? — to please me?” 

“I am not in the habit of playing with hot 
coals to please anybody. She has been sent 
from heaven, as I may have remarked before, 
to help me with my Melancolia.” 

“Never heard a word about the lady be- 
fore.” 

“What’s the use of having a friend, if you 
must sling your notions at him in words? 
You ought to know what I’m thinking about. 
You’ve heard me grunt lately?” 

“Even so; but grunts mean anything in 
your language, from bad ’baccy to wicked 
dealers. And I don’t think I’ve been much in 
your confidence for some time.” 

“It was a high and soulful grunt. You 
ought to have understood that it meant the 
Melancolia.” Dick walked Torpenhow up and 
down the room, keeping silence. Then he 
smote him in the ribs. “Now don’t you see it? 
Bessie’s abject futility, and the terror in her 
eyes, welded on to one or two details in the 
way of sorrow that have come under my ex- 
perience lately. Likewise some orange and 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 199 


black, — two keys of each. But I can’t explain 
on an empty stomach.” 

“It sounds mad enough. You’d better stick 
to your soldiers, Dick, instead of maundering 
about heads and eyes and experiences.” 

“Think so?” Dick began to dance on his 
heels, singing — 

“They’re as proud as a turkey when they hold the 
ready cash, 

You ought to ’ear the way they laugh an’ joke; 
They are tricky an’ they’re funny when they’ve got the 
ready money, — 

Ow ! but see ’em when they’re all stone-broke.” 

Then he sat down to pour out his heart to 
Maisie in a four-sheet letter of counsel and en- 
couragement, and registered an oath that he 
would get to work with an undivided heart as 
soon as Bessie should reappear. 

The girl kept her appointment unpainted 
and unadorned, afraid and overbold by turns. 
When she found that she was merely expected 
to sit still, she grew calmer, and criticised the 
appointments of the studio with freedom and 
some point. She liked the warmth and the 
comfort and the release from fear of physi- 
cal pain. Dick made two or three studies of 
her head in monochrome, but the actual no- 
tion of the Melancolia would not arrive. 


200 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“What a mess you keep your things in!” 
said Bessie, some days later, when she felt her- 
self thoroughly at home. “I s’pose your 
clothes are just as bad. Gentlemen never 
think what buttons and tape are made for.” 

“I buy things to wear, and wear ’em till 
they go to pieces. I don’t know what Torpen- 
how does.” 

Bessie made diligent inquiry in the latter’s 
room, and unearthed a bale of disreputable 
socks. “Some of these I’ll mend now,” she 
said, “and some I’ll take home. D’you know, 
I sit all day long at home doing nothing, just 
like a lady, and no more noticing them other 
girls in the house than if they was so many 
flies? I don’t have any unnecessary words, 
but I put ’em down quick, I can tell you, when 
they talk to me. No ; it’s quite nice these days. 
I lock my door, and they can only call me 
names through the keyhole, and I sit inside, 
just like a lady, mending socks. Mr. Torpen- 
how wears his socks out both ends at once.” 

“Three quid a week from me, and the de- 
lights of my society. No socks mended. 
Nothing from Torp except a nod on the land- 
ing now and again, and all his socks mended. 
Bessie is very much a woman,” thought Dick ; 
and he looked at her between half-shut eyes. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 201 


Food and rest had transformed the girl, as 
Dick knew they would. 

“What are you looking at me like that for?” 
she said, quickly. “Don’t. You look reg’lar 
bad when you look that way. You don’t think 
much o’ me, do you?” 

“That depends on how you behave.” 

Bessie behaved beautifully. Only it was 
difficult at the end of a sitting to bid her go 
out into the grey streets. She very much pre- 
ferred the studio and a big chair by the stove, 
with some socks in her lap as an excuse for de- 
lay. Then Torpenhow would come in, and 
Bessie would be moved to tell strange and won- 
derful stories of her past, and still stranger 
ones of her present improved circumstances. 
She would make them tea as though she had 
a right to make it ; and once or twice on these 
occasions Dick caught Torpenhow’s eyes fixed 
on the trim little figure, and because Bessie’s 
flittings about the room made Dick ardently 
long for Maisie, he realized whither Torpen- 
how’s thoughts were tending. And Bessie was 
exceedingly careful of the condition of Tor- 
penhow’s linen. She spoke very little to him, 
but sometimes they talked together on the land- 
ing. 

“I was a great fool,” Dick said to himself. 


202 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“I know what red firelight looks like when a 
man’s trampling through a strange town ; and 
ours is a lonely, selfish sort of life at the best. 
I wonder Maisie doesn’t feel that sometimes. 
But I can’t order Bessie away. That’s the 
worst of beginning things. One never knows 
where they stop.” 

One evening, after a sitting prolonged to 
the last limit of the light, Dick was roused 
from a nap by a broken voice in Torpenhow’s 
room. He jumped to his feet. “Now what 
ought I to do ? It looks foolish to go in. — Oh, 
bless you, Binkie!” The little terrier thrust 
Torpenhow’s door open with his nose and came 
out to take possession of Dick’s chair. The 
door swung wide unheeded, and Dick across 
the landing could see Bessie in the half-light 
making her little supplication to Torpenhow. 
She was kneeling by his side, and her hands 
were clasped across his knee. 

“I know, — I know,” she said, thickly. 
“’Tisn’t right o’ me to do this, but I can’t help 
it; and you were so kind, — so kind; and you 
never took any notice o’ me. And I’ve mended 
all your things so carefully, — I did. Oh, please 
’tisn’t as if I was asking you to marry me. I 
wouldn’t think of it. But cou — couldn’t you 
take and live with me till Miss Right comes 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 203 


along? I’m only Miss Wrong, I know, but 
1’d work my hands to the bare bone for you. 
And I’m not ugly to look at. Say you will?” 

Dick hardly recognized Torpenhow’s voice 
in reply — 

“But look here. It’s no use. I’m liable to 
be ordered off anywhere at a minute’s notice 
if a war breaks out. At a minute’s notice — 
dear.” 

“What does that matter? Until you go, 
then. Until you go. ’Tisn’t much I’m ask- 
ing, and — you don’t know how good I can 
cook.” She had put an arm round his neck 
and was drawing his head down. 

“Until— I— go, then.” 

“Torp,” said Dick across the landing. He 
could hardly steady his voice. “Come here a 
minute, old man. I’m in trouble.” — “Heaven 
send he’ll listen to me !” There was something 
very like an oath from Bessie’s lips. She was 
afraid of Dick, and disappeared down the stair- 
case in panic, but it seemed an age before Tor- 
penhow entered the studio. He went to the 
mantelpiece, buried his head on his arms, and 
groaned like a wounded bull. 

“What the devil right have you to inter- 
fere?” he said, at last. 

“Who’s interfering with which? Your own 


204 THE LIGHT that failed 


sense told you long ago you couldn’t be such 
a fool. It was a tough rack, St. Anthony, but 
you’re all right now.” 

“I oughtn’t to have seen her moving about 
these rooms as if they belonged to her. That’s 
what upset me. It gives a lonely man a sort 
of hankering, doesn’t it?” said Torpenhow, pit- 
eously. 

“Now you talk sense. ' It does. But, since 
you aren’t in a condition to discuss the disad- 
vantages of double housekeeping, do you know 
what you’re going to do ?” 

“I don’t. I wish I did.” 

“You’re going away for a season on a bril- 
liant tour to regain tone. You’re going to 
Brighton, or Scarborough, or Prawle Point, to 
see the ships go by. And you’re going at once. 
Isn’t it odd? I’ll take care of Binkie, but you 
go immediately. Never resist the devil. He 
holds the bank. Fly from him. Pack your 
things and go.” 

“I believe you’re right. Where shall I go?” 

“And you call yourself a special correspon- 
dent! Pack first and inquire afterward.” 

An hour later Torpenhow was despatched 
into the night in a hansom. “You’ll probably 
think of some place to go to while you’re mov- 
ing,” said Dick. “Go to Euston, to begin with, 
and — oh yes — get drunk to-night.” 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 205 


He returned to the studio, and lighted more 
candles, for he found the room very dark. 

“Oh, you Jezebel! you futile little Jezebel! 
Won’t you hate me to-morrow? — Binkie, come 
here.” 

Binkie turned over on his back on the hearth 
rug, and Dick stirred him with a meditative 
foot. 

“I said she was not immoral. I was wrong. 
She said she could cook. That showed pre- 
meditated sin. Oh, Binkie, if you are a man 
you will go to perdition ; but if you are a wom- 
an, and say that you can cook, you will go to 
a much worse place.” 


CHAPTER X 


What’s you that follows at my side? — 

The foe that ye must fight, my lord, — 

That hirples swift as I can ride? — 

The shadow of the night, my lord. — 

Then wheel my horse against the foe ! — 

He’s down and overpast, my lord. 

Ye war against the sunset glow: 

The darkness gathers fast, my lord. 

— The Fight of Heriot’s Fora. 

‘This is a cheerful life,” said Dick, some 
days later. “Torp’s away; Bessie hates me; I 
can’t get at the notion of the Melancolia; 
Maisie’s letters are scrappy; and I believe I 
have indigestion. What gives a man pains 
across his head and spots before his eyes, Bin- 
kie? Shall us take some liver pills?” 

Dick had just gone through a lively scene 
with Bessie. She had for the fiftieth time re- 
proached him for sending Torpenhow away. 
She explained her enduring hatred for Dick, 
and made it clear to him that she only sat for 
the sake of his money. “And Mr. Torpenhow’s 
ten times a better man than you,” she conclud- 
ed. 

“He is. That’s why he went away. / should 
have stayed and made love to you.” 

206 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 207 


The girl sat with her chin on her hand, 
scowling. “To me! I’d like to catch you! If 
I wasn’t afraid o’ being hung I’d kill you. 
That’s what I’d do. D’you believe me?” 

Dick smiled wearily. It is not pleasant to 
live in the company of a notion that will not 
work out, a fox-terrier that cannot talk, and a 
woman who talks too much. He would have 
answered, but at that moment there unrolled 
itself from one corner of the studio a veil, as 
it were, of the filmiest gauze. He rubbed his 
eyes, but the grey haze would not go. 

“This is a disgraceful indigestion. Binkie, 
we will go to a medicine-man. We can’t have 
our eyes interfered with, for by these we get 
our bread; also mutton-chop bones for little 
dogs.” 

The doctor was an affable local practitioner 
with white hair, and he said nothing till Dick 
began to describe the grey film in the studio. 

“We all want a little patching and repairing 
from time to time,” he chirped. “Like a ship, 
my dear sir, — exactly like a ship. Sometimes 
the hull is out of order, and we consult the sur- 
geon; sometimes the rigging, and then I ad- 
vise; sometimes the engines, and we go to 
the brain-specialist; sometimes the look-out on 
the bridge is tired, and then we see an oculist. 


208 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


I should recommend you to see an oculist. A 
little patching and repairing from time to time 
is all we want. An oculist, by all means.” 

Dick sought an oculist, — the best in Lon- 
don. He was certain that the local practition- 
er did not know anything about his trade, and 
more certain that Maisie would laugh at him 
if he were forced to wear spectacles. 

“Eve neglected the warnings of my lord 
the stomach too long. Hence these spots be- 
fore the eyes, Binkie. I can see as well as I ever 
could.” 

As he entered the dark hall that led to the 
consulting-room a man cannoned against him. 
Dick saw the face as it hurried out into the 
street. 

“That’s the writer-type. He has the same 
modeling of the forehead as Torp. He looks 
very sick. Probably heard something he didn’t 
like.” 

Even as he thought, a great fear came upon 
Dick, a fear that made him hold his breath as 
he walked into the oculist’s waiting-room, with 
the heavy carved furniture, the dark-green 
paper, and the sober-hued prints on the wall. 
He recognized a reproduction of one of his 
own sketches. 

Many people were waiting their turn before 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 209 


him. His eye was caught by a flaming red-and- 
gold Christmas-carol book. Little children 
came to that eye-doctor, and they needed large- 
type amusement. 

“That’s idolatrous bad Art,” he said, draw- 
ing the book toward himself. “From the anat- 
omy of the angels, it has been made in Ger- 
many.” He opened it mechanically, and there 
leaped to his eyes a verse printed in red ink — 

The next good joy that Mary had, 

It was the joy of three, 
lTo see her good Son Jesus Christ 
Making the blind to see; 

Making the blind to see, good Lord, 

And happy may we be. 

Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost 
To all eternity! 

Dick read and re-read the verse till his turn 
came, and the doctor was bending above him 
seated in an armchair. The blaze of a gas- 
microscope in his eyes made him wince. The 
doctor’s hand touched the scar of the sword- 
cut on Dick’s head, and Dick explained briefly 
how he had come by it. When the flame was 
removed, Dick saw the doctor’s face, and the 
fear came upon him again. The doctor wrap- 
ped himself in a mist of words. Dick caught 
allusions to “scar,” “frontal bone,” “optic 


2io THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


nerve,” “extreme caution,” and the “avoidance 
of mental anxiety.” 

“Verdict?” he said, faintly. “My business 
is painting, and I daren’t waste time. What 
do you make of it ?” 

Again the whirl of words, but this time they 
conveyed a meaning. 

“Can you give me anything to drink ?” 

Many sentences were pronounced in that 
darkened room and the prisoners often needed 
cheering. Dick found a glass of liquor brandy 
in his hand. 

“As far as I can gather,” he said, coughing 
above the spirit, “you call it decay of the optic 
nerve, or something, and therefore hopeless. 
What is my time-limit, avoiding all strain and 
worry ?” 

“Perhaps one year.” 

“My God ! And if I don’t take care of my- 
self?” 

“I really could not say. One cannot ascer- 
tain the exact amount of injury inflicted by 
the sword-cut. The scar is an old one, and — 
exposure to the strong light of the desert, did 
you say? — with excessive application to fine 
work? I really could not say.” 

“I beg your pardon, but it has come without 
any warning. If you will let me, I’ll sit here 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 21 1 


for a minute, and then IT1 go. You have been 
very good in telling me the truth. Without 
any warning ; without any warning. Thanks.” 

Dick went into the street, and was raptur- 
ously received by Binkie. “We’ve got it very 
badly, little dog! Just as badly as we can get 
it. We’ll go to the Park to think it out.” 

They headed for a certain tree that Dick 
knew well, and they sat down to think, because 
his legs were trembling under him and there 
was cold fear at the pit of his stomach. 

“How could it have come without any warn- 
ing? It’s as sudden as being shot. It’s the 
living death, Binkie. We’re to be shut up in 
the dark in one year if we’re careful, and we 
shan’t see anybody, and we shall never have 
anything we want, not though we live to be 
a hundred.” Binkie wagged his tail joyously. 
“Binkie, we must think. Let’s see how it feels 
to be blind.” Dick shut his eyes, and flaming 
commas and Catherine-wheels floated inside 
the lids. Yet when he looked across the Park 
the scope of his vision was not contracted. He 
could see perfectly, until a procession of slow- 
wheeling fire-works defiled across his eyeballs. 

“Little dorglums, we aren’t at all well. Let’s 
go home. If only Torp were back, now !” 

But Torpenhow was in the south of Eng- 


212 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


land, inspecting dockyards in the company of 
the Nilghai. His letters were brief and full of 
mystery. 

Dick had never asked anybody to help him 
in his joys or his sorrows. He argued, in the 
loneliness of the studio, henceforward to be 
decorated with a film of grey gauze in one cor- 
ner, that, if his fate were blindness, all the Tor- 
penhows in the world could not save him. “I 
can’t call him off his trip to sit down and sym- 
pathize with me. I must pull through the bus- 
iness alone,” he said. He was lying on the 
sofa, eating his moustache and wondering what 
the darkness of the night would be like. Then 
came to his mind the memory of a quaint scene 
in the Soudan. A soldier had been nearly 
hacked in two by a broad-bladed Arab spear. 
For one instant the man felt no pain. Looking 
down, he saw that his life-blood was going 
from him. The stupid bewilderment on his 
face was so intensely comic that both Dick and 
Torpenhow, still panting and unstrung from a 
fight for life, had roared with laughter, in 
which the man seemed as if he would join, but, 
as his lips parted in a sheepish grin, the agony 
of death came upon him, and he pitched grunt- 
ing at their feet. Dick laughed again, remem- 
bering the horror. It seemed so exactly like 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 213 


his own case. “But I have a little more time 
allowed me,” he said. He paced up and down 
the room, quietly at first, but afterward with 
the hurried feet of fear. It was as though a 
black shadow stood at his elbow and urged 
him to go forward ; and there were only weav- 
ing circles and floating pin-dots before his 
eyes. 

“We must be calm, Binkie; we must be 
calm.” He talked aloud for the sake of dis- 
traction. “This isn’t nice at all. What shall 
we do? We must do something. Our time is 
short. I shouldn’t have believed that this 
morning; but now things are different. Binkie, 
where was Moses when the light went out ?” 

Binkie smiled from ear to ear, as a well- 
bred terrier should, but made no suggestion. 

“ ‘Were there but world enough and time, 
This coyness, Binkie, were no crime. . . . 

But at my back I always hear’ ” — He wiped 
his forehead, which was unpleasantly damp. 
“What can I do? What can I do? I haven’t 
any notions left, and I can’t think connectedly, 
but I must do something, or I shall go off my 
head.” 

The hurried walk recommenced, Dick stop- 
ping every now and again to drag forth long- 
neglected canvases and old notebooks; for he 


214 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


turned to his work by instinct, as a thing that 
could not fail. “You won’t do, and you won’t 
do,” he said, at each inspection. “No more 
soldiers. I couldn’t paint ’em. Sudden death 
comes home too nearly, and this is battle and 
murder both for me.” 

The day was falling, and Dick thought for a 
moment that the twilight of the blind had 
come upon him unawares. “Allah Almighty !” 
he cried, despairingly, “help me through the 
time of waiting, and I won’t whine when my 
punishment comes. What can I do now, be- 
fore the light goes?” 

There was no answer. Dick waited till he 
could regain some sort of control over him- 
self. His hands were shaking, and he prided 
himself on their steadiness; he could feel that 
his lips were quivering, and the sweat was run- 
ning down his face. He was lashed by fear, 
driven forward by the desire to get to work 
at once and accomplish something, and mad- 
dened by the refusal of his brain to do more 
than repeat the news that he was about to go 
blind. “It’s a humiliating exhibition,” he 
thought, “and I’m glad Torp isn’t here to see. 
The doctor said I was to avoid mental worry. 
Come here and let me pet you, Binkie.” 

The little dog yelped because Dick nearly 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 215 


squeezed the bark out of him. Then he heard 
the man speaking in the twilight, and, doglike, 
understood that his trouble stood off from him. 

“Allah is good, Binkie. Not quite so gentle 
as we could wish, but we’ll discuss that later. I 
think I see my way to it now. All those studies 
of Bessie’s head were nonsense, and they near- 
ly brought your master into a scrape. I hold 
the notion now as clear as crystal, — ‘The Mel- 
ancolia that transcends all wit.’ There shall be 
Maisie in that head, because I shall never get 
Maisie ; and Bess, of course, because she knows 
all about Melancolia, though she doesn’t know 
she knows; and there shall be some drawing 
in it, and it shall all end up with a laugh. 
That’s for myself. Shall she giggle or grin? 
No, she shall laugh right out of the canvas, and 
every man and woman that ever had a sorrow 
of their own shall — what is it the poem says ? — 

“Understand the speech and feel a stir 
Of fellowship in all disastrous fight.” 

Tn all disastrous fight’? That’s better than 
painting the thing merely to pique Maisie. I 
can do it now because I have it inside me. Bin- 
kie, I’m going to hold you up by your tail. 
You’re an omen. Come here.” 

Binkie swung head downward for a moment 
without speaking. 


216 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“ ’Rather like holding a guinea-pig; but 
you’re a brave little dog, and you don’t yelp 
when you’re hung up. It is an omen.” 

Binkie went to his own chair, and as often as 
he looked saw Dick walking up and down, rub- 
bing his hands and chuckling. That night Dick 
wrote a letter to Maisie full of the tenderest re- 
gard for her health, but saying very little about 
his own, and dreamed of the Melancolia to be 
born. Not till morning did he remember that 
something might happen to him in the future. 

He fell to work, whistling softly, and was 
swallowed up in the clean, clear joy of creation, 
which does not come to man too often, lest he 
should consider himself the equal of his God, 
and so refuse to die at the appointed time. He 
forgot Maisie, Torpenhow, and Binkie at his 
feet, but remembered to stir Bessie, who need- 
ed very little stirring, into a tremendous rage, 
that he might watch the smouldering lights in 
her eyes. He threw himself without reserva- 
tion into his work, and did not think of the 
doom that was to overtake him, for he was pos- 
sessed with his notion, and the things of this 
world had no power upon him. 

“You’re pleased to-day,” said Bessie. 

Dick waved his mahl-stick in mystic circles 
and went to the sideboard for a drink. In the 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 217 


evening, when the exaltation of the day had 
died down, he went to the sideboard again, and 
after some visits became convinced that the 
eye-doctor was a liar, since he still could see 
everything very clearly. He was of opinion 
that he would even make a home for Maisie, 
and whether she liked it or not she should be 
his wife. The mood passed next morning, but 
the sideboard and all upon it remained for his 
comfort. Again he set to work, and his eyes 
troubled him with spots and dashes and blurs 
till he had taken counsel with the sideboard, 
and the Melancolia both on the canvas and in 
his own mind appeared lovelier than ever. 
There was a delightful sense of irresponsibility 
upon him, such as they feel who walking 
among their fellow-men know that the death- 
sentence of disease is upon them, and, since fear 
is but waste of the little time left, are riotously 
happy. The days passed without event. Bes- 
sie arrived punctually always, and, though her 
voice seemed to Dick to come from a distance, 
her face was always very near, and the Melan- 
colia began to flame on the canvas, in the like- 
ness of a woman who had known all the sor- 
row in the world and was laughing at it. It 
was true that the corners of the studio draped 
themselves in grey film and retired into the 


218 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


darkness, that the spots in his eyes and the 
pains across his head were very troublesome, 
and that Maisie’s letters were hard to read and 
harder still to answer. He could not tell her 
of his trouble, and he could not laugh at her ac- 
counts of her own Melancolia, which was al- 
ways going to be finished. But the furious days 
of toil and the nights of wild dreams made 
amends for all, and the sideboard was his best 
friend on earth. Bessie was singularly dull. 
She used to shriek with rage when Dick stared 
at her between half-closed eyes. Now she 
sulked, or watched him with disgust, saying 
very little. 

Torpenhow had been absent for six weeks. 
An incoherent note heralded his return. 
“News! great news!” he wrote. “The Nilghai 
knows, and so does the Keneu. We’re all back 
on Thursday. Get lunch and clean your ac- 
coutrements. 

Dick showed Bessie the letter, and she 
abused him for that he had ever sent Torpen- 
how away and ruined her life. 

“Well,” said Dick, brutally, “you’re better 
as you are, instead of rpaking love to some 
drunken beast in the street.” He felt that he 
had rescued Torpenhow from great tempta- 
tion. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 219 


“I don’t know if that’s any worse than sit- 
ting to a drunken beast in a studio. You 
haven’t been sober for three weeks. You’ve 
been soaking the whole time ; and yet you pre- 
tend you’re better than me !” 

“What d’you mean?” said Dick. 

“Mean! You’ll see when Mr. Torpenhow 
comes back.” 

It was not long to wait. Torpenhow met 
Bessie on the staircase without a sign of feel- 
ing. He had news that was more to him than 
many Bessies, and the Keneu and the Nilghai 
were trampling behind, calling for Dick. 

“Drinking like a fish,” Bessie whispered. 
“He’s been at it for nearly a month.” She fol- 
lowed the men stealthily to hear judgment 
done. 

They came into the studio, rejoicing, to be 
welcomed over-effusively by a drawn, lined, 
shrunken, haggard wreck, — unshaven, blue- 
white about the nostrils, stooping in the shoul- 
ders, and peering under his eyebrows nerv- 
ously. The drink had been at work as steadily 
as Dick. 

“Is this you?” said Torpenhow. 

“All that’s left of me. Sit down. Binkie’s 
quite well, and I’ve been doing some good 
work.” He reeled where he stood. 


220 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“You’ve done some of the worst work you’ve 
ever done in your life. Man alive, you’re — 

Torpenhow turned to his companions appeal- 
ingly, and they left the room to find lunch else- 
where. Then he spoke; but, since the reproof 
of a friend is much too sacred and intimate a 
thing to be printed, and since Torpenhow used 
figures and metaphors which were unseemly, 
and contempt untranslatable, it will never be 
known what was actually said to Dick, who 
blinked and winked and picked at his hands. 
After a time the culprit began to feel the need 
of a little self-respect. He was quite sure that 
he had not in any way departed from virtue, 
and there were reasons, too, of which Torpen- 
how knew nothing. He would explain. 

He rose, tried to straighten his shoulders, 
and spoke to the face he could hardly see. 

“You are right,” he said. “But I am right, 
too. After you went away I had some trouble 
with my eyes. So I went to an oculist, and he 
turned a gasogen — I mean a gas-engine — into 
my eye. That was very long ago. He said, 
‘Scar on the head — sword-cut and optic nerve.’ 
Make a note of that. So I am going blind. I 
have some work to do before I go blind, and I 
suppose that I must do it. I cannot see much 
now, but I can see best when I am drunk. I did 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 221 


not know I was drunk till I was told, but I 
must go on with my work. If you want to see 
it, there it is.” He pointed to the all but fin- 
ished Melancolia and looked for applause. 

Torpenhow said nothing, and Dick began to 
whimper feebly, for joy at seeing Torpenhow 
again, for grief at misdeeds — if indeed they 
were misdeeds — that made Torpenhow remote 
and unsympathetic, and for childish vanity 
hurt, since Torpenhow had not given a word of 
praise to his wonderful picture. 

Bessie looked through the keyhole after a 
long pause, and saw the two walking up and 
down as usual, Torpenhow’s hand on Dick’s 
shoulder. Hereat she said something so im- 
proper that it shocked even Binkie, who was 
dribbling patiently on the landing with the 
hope of seeing his master again. 


CHAPTER XI 


The lark will make her hymn to God, 

The partridge call her brood, 

While I forget the heath I trod, 

The fields wherein I stood. 

Tis dule to know not night from morn, 

But deeper dule to know 
I can but hear the hunter’s horn 
That once I used to blow. 

— The Only Son. 

It was the third day after Torpenhow’s re- 
turn, and his heart was heavy. 

“Do you mean to tell me that you can’t see 
to work without whiskey? It’s generally the 
other way about.” 

“Can a drunkard swear on his honor?” said 
Dick. 

“Yes, if he has been as good a man as you.” 

“Then I give you my word of honor,” said 
Dick, speaking hurriedly through parched lips. 
“Old man, I can hardly see your face now. 
You’ve kept me sober for two days, — if I ever 
was drunk, — and I’ve done no work. Don’t 
keep me back any more. I don’t know when 
my eyes may give out. The spots and dots 
and the pains and things are crowding worse 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 223 


than ever. I swear I can see all right when I’m 
— when I’m moderately screwed, as you say. 
Give me three more sittings from Bessie and all 
the — stuff I want, and the picture will be done. 

I can’t kill myself in three days. It only means 
a touch of D. T. at the worst.” 

“If I give you three days more will you 
promise me to stop work and — the other thing, 
whether the picture’s finished or not ? 

“I can’t. You don’t know what that picture 
means to me. But surely you could get the 
Nilghai to help you, and knock me down and 
tie me up. I shouldn’t fight for the whiskey, 
but I should for the work.” 

, “Go on, then. I give you three days ; but 
you’re nearly breaking my heart.” 

Dick returned to his work, toiling as one 
possessed ; and the yellow devil of whiskey 
stood by him and chased away the spots in his 
eyes. The Melancolia was nearly finished, and 
was all or nearly all that he had hoped she 
would be. Dick jested with Bessie, who re- 
minded him that he was “a drunken beast” ; but 
the reproof did not move him. 

“You can’t understand, Bess. We are in 
sight of land now, and soon we shall lie back 
and think about what we’ve done. I’ll give you 
three months’ pay when the picture’s finished. 


224 THE light that failed 


and next time I have any more work in hand 
— but that doesn’t matter. Won’t three months’ 
pay make you hate me less ?” 

“No, it won’t! I hate you, and I’ll go on 
hating you. Mr. Torpenhow won’t speak to 
me any more. He’s always looking at map- 
things and red-backed books.” 

Bessie did not say that she had again laid 
siege to Torpenhow, or that he had at the end 
of her passionate pleading picked her up, given 
her a kiss, and put her outside the door with a 
recommendation not to be a little fool. He 
spent most of his time in the company of the 
Nilghai, and their talk was of war in the near 
future, the hiring of transports, and secret 
preparations among the dockyards. He did 
not care to see Dick till the picture was fin- 
ished. 

“He’s doing first-class work,” he said to the 
Nilghai, “and it’s quite out of his regular line. 
But, for the matter of that, so’s his infernal 
drinking.” 

“Never mind. Leave him alone. When he 
has come to his senses again we’ll carry him off 
from this place and let him breathe clean air. 
Poor Dick! I don’t envy you, Torp, when his 
eyes fail.” 

“Yes, it will be a case of ‘God help the man 



Copyright, 1909, by The Edinburgh Society 







THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 225 


who’s chained to our Davie.’ The worst is that 
we don’t know when it will happen; and I be- 
lieve the uncertainty and the waiting have sent 
Dick to the whiskey more than anything else.” 

“How the Arab who cut his head open would 
grin if he knew !” 

“He’s at perfect liberty to grin if he can. 
He’s dead. That’s poor consolation now.” 

In the afternoon of the third day Torpenhow 
heard Dick calling for him. “All finished !” he 
shouted. “I’ve done it ! Come in ! Isn’t she a 
beauty? Isn’t she a darling? I’ve been down 
to hell to get her; but isn’t she worth it?” 

Torpenhow looked at the head of a woman 
who laughed, — a full-lipped, hollow-eyed wo- 
man who laughed from out of the canvas as 
Dick had intended she should. 

“Who taught you how to do it?” said Tor- 
penhow. “The touch and notion have nothing 
to do with your regular work. What a face it 
is ! What eyes, and what insolence !” Uncon- 
sciously he threw back his head and laughed 
with her. “She’s seen the game played out,— 
I don’t think she had a good time of it, — and 
now she doesn’t care. Isn’t that the idea?” 

“Exactly.” 

“Where did you get the mouth and chin 
from? They don’t belong to Bess.” 


226 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“They’re — some one else’s. But isn’t it 
good? Isn’t it thundering good? Wasn’t it 
worth the whiskey? I did it. Alone I did it, 
and it’s the best I can do.” He drew his 
breath sharply, and whispered, “Just God! 
what could I not do ten years hence, if I can 
do this now ! — By the way, what do you think 
of it, Bess?” 

The girl was biting her lips. She loathed 
Torpenhow because he had taken no notice of 
her. 

“I think it’s just the horridest, beastliest 
thing I ever saw,” she answered, and turned 
away. 

“More than you will be of that way of think- 
ing, young woman. — Dick, there’s a sort of 
murderous, viperine suggestion in the poise of 
the head that I don’t understand,” said Tor- 
penhow. 

“That’s trick-work,” said Dick, chuckling 
with delight at being completely understood. 
“I couldn’t resist one little bit of sheer swag- 
ger. It’s a French trick, and you wouldn’t un- 
derstand; but it’s got at by slewing round the 
head a trifle, and a tiny, tiny foreshortening of 
one side of the face from the angle of the chin 
to the top of the left ear. That, and deepening 
the shadow under the lobe of the ear. It was 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 227 


flagrant trick- work; but, having the notion 
fixed, I felt entitled to play with it. — Oh, you 
beauty !” 

“Amen ! She is a beauty. I can feel it.” 

“So will every man who has any sorrow of 
his own,” said Dick, slapping his thigh. “He 
shall see his trouble there, and, by the Lord 
Harry, just when he’s feeling properly sorry 
for himself he shall throw back his head and 
laugh, — as she is laughing. I’ve put the life of 
my heart and the light of my eyes into her, and 
I don’t care what comes. . . . I’m tired, 

— awfully tired. I think I’ll get to sleep. Take 
away the whiskey, it has served its turn, and 
give Bessie thirty-six quid, and three over for 
luck. Cover the picture.” 

He dropped asleep in the long chair, his face 
white and haggard, almost before he had fin- 
ished the sentence. Bessie tried to take Tor- 
penhow’s hand. “Aren’t you never going 
to speak to me any more?” she said; but Tor- 
penhow was looking at Dick. 

“What a stock of vanity the man has! I’ll 
take him in hand to-morrow and make much of 
him. He deserves it. — Eh! What was that, 
Bess?” 

“Nothing. I’ll put things tidy here a little, 
and then I’ll go. You couldn’t give me that 


228 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


three months’ pay now, could you? He said 
you were to.” 

Torpenhow gave her a check and went to his 
own rooms. Bessie faithfully tidied up the stu- 
dio, set the door ajar for flight, emptied half a 
bottle of turpentine on a duster, and began to 
scrub the face of the Melancolia viciously. The 
paint did not smudge quickly enough. She 
took a palette-knife and scraped, following 
each stroke with a wet duster. In five minutes 
the picture was a formless, scarred muddle of 
colors. She threw the paint-stained duster into 
the studio stove, stuck out her tongue at the 
sleeper, and whispered, “Bilked !” as she turned 
to run down the staircase. She would never 
see Torpenhow any more, but she had at least 
done harm to the man who had come between 
her and her desire and who used to make fun 
of her. Cashing the check was the very cream 
of the jest to Bessie. Then the little privateer 
sailed across the Thames, to be swallowed up 
in the grey wilderness of South-the-water. 

Dick slept till late into the evening, when 
Torpenhow dragged him off to bed. His eyes 
were as bright as his voice was hoarse. “Let’s 
have another look at the picture,” he said, in- 
sistently as a child. 

“You — go — to — bed,” said Torpenhow. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 229 


“You aren’t at all well, though you mayn’t 
know it. You’re as jumpy as a cat.” 

“I reform to-morrow. Good-night.” 

As he repassed through the studio, Torpen- 
how lifted the cloth above the picture, and al- 
most betrayed himself by outcries: “Wiped 
out! — scraped out and turped out! If Dick 
knows this to-night he’ll go perfectly mad. 
He’s on the verge of jumps as it is. That’s 
Bess, — the little fiend! Only a woman could 
have done that! — with the ink not dry on the 
check, too! Dick will be raving mad to-mor- 
row. It was all my fault for trying to help 
gutter-devils. Oh, my poor Dick, the Lord is 
hitting you very hard !” 

Dick could not sleep that night, partly for 
pure joy, and partly because the well-known 
Catherine-wheels inside his eyes had given 
place to crackling volcanoes of many-colored 
fire. “Spout away,” he said, aloud. “I’ve 
done my work, and now you can do what you 
please.” He lay still, staring at the ceiling, the 
long-pent-up delirium of drink in his veins, his 
brain on fire with racing thoughts that would 
not stay to be considered, and his hands 
crisped and dry. He had just discovered that 
he was painting the face of the Melancolia on a 
revolving dome ribbed with millions of lights, 


230 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


and that all his wondrous thoughts stood em- 
bodied hundreds of feet below his tiny swing- 
ing plank, shouting together in his honor, when 
something cracked inside his temples like an 
overstrained bowstring, the glittering dome 
broke inward, and he was alone in the thick 
night. 

“I’ll go to sleep. The room’s very dark. 
Let’s light a lamp and see how the Melancolia 
looks. There ought to have been a moon.” 

It was then that Torpenhow heard his name 
called by a voice that he did not know, — in the 
rattling accents of deadly fear. 

“He’s looked at the picture,” was his first 
thought, as he hurried into the bedroom and 
found Dick sitting up and beating the air with 
his hands. 

“Torp! Torp! Where are you? For pity’s 
sake, come to me !” 

“What’s the matter ?” 

Dick clutched at his shoulder. “Matter ! 
I’ve been lying here for hours in the dark, and 
you never heard me. Torp, old man, don’t go 
away. I’m all in the dark. In the dark, I tell 
you!” 

Torpenhow held the candle within a foot of 
Dick’s eyes, but there was no light in those 
eyes. He lit the gas, and Dick heard the flame 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 231 


catch. The grip of his fingers on Torpenhow’s 
shoulder made Torpenhow wince. 

“Don’t leave me. You wouldn’t leave me 
alone now, would you? I can’t see. D’you un- 
derstand ? It’s black, — quite black, — and I feel 
as if I were falling through it all.” 

“Steady, does it.” Torpenhow put his arm 
round Dick and began to rock him gently to 
and fro. 

“That’s good. Now don’t talk. If I keep 
very quiet for a while, this darkness will lift. 
It seems just on the point of breaking. H’sh!” 
Dick knit his brows and stared desperately in 
front of him. The night air was chilling Tor- 
penhow’s toes. 

“Can you stay like that a minute?” he said 
“I’ll get my dressing-gown and some slip- 
pers.” 

Dick clutched the bed-head with both hands 
and waited for the darkness to clear away. 
“What a time you’ve been!” he cried, when 
Torpenhow returned. “It’s as black as ever. 
What are you banging about in the doorway?” 

“Long chair, — horse-blanket, — pillow. Go- 
ing to sleep by you. Lie down now ; you’ll be 
better in the morning. 

“I shan’t!” The voice rose to a wail. “My 
God ! I’m blind ! I’m blind, and the darkness 


232 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


will never go away.” He made as if to leap 
from the bed. but Torpenhow’s arms were 
round him, and Torpenhow’s chin was on his 
shoulder, and his breath was squeezed out of 
him. He could only gasp, “Blind !” and wrig- 
gle feebly. 

“Steady, Dicky, steady !” said the deep voice 
in his ear, and the grip tightened. “Bite on the 
bullet, old man, and don’t let them think you’re 
afraid.” The grip could draw no closer. Both 
men were breathing heavily. Dick threw his 
head from side to side and groaned. 

“Let me go,” he panted. “You’re cracking 
my ribs. We — we mustn’t let them think we’re 
afraid, must we, — all the powers of darkness 
and that lot?” 

“Lie down. It’s all over now.” 

“Yes,” said Dick, obediently. “But would 
you mind letting me hold your hand ? I feel as 
if I wanted something to hold on to. One 
drops through the dark so.” 

Torpenhow thrust out a large and hairy paw 
from the long chair. Dick clutched it tightly, 
and in half an hour had fallen asleep. Torpen- 
how withdrew his hand, and, stooping over 
Dick, kissed him lightly on the forehead, as 
men do sometimes kiss a wounded comrade in 
the hour of death, to ease his departure. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 233 


In the grey dawn Torpenhow heard Dick 
talking to himself. He was adrift on the shore- 
less tides of delirium, speaking very quickly — 

“It’s a pity, — a great pity; but it’s helped, 
and it must be eaten, Master George. Suffi- 
cient unto the day is the blindness thereof, and, 
further, putting aside all Melancolias and false 
humors, it is of obvious notoriety — such as 
mine was — that the queen can do no wrong. 
Torp doesn’t know that. I’ll tell him when 
we’re a little farther into the desert. What a 
bungle those boatmen are making of the 
steamer-ropes! They’ll have that four-inch 
hawser chafed through in a minute. I told you 
so — there she goes! White foam on green 
water, and the steamer slewing round. How 
good that looks. I’ll sketch it. No, I can’t. 
I’m afflicted with ophthalmia. That was one 
of the ten plagues of Egypt, and it extends up 
the Nile in the shape of cataract. Ha ! that’s 
a joke, Torp. Laugh, you graven image, and 
stand clear of the hawser. . . . It’ll knock 

you into the water and make your dress all 
dirty, Maisie dear.” 

“Oh!” said Torpenhow. “This happened 
before. That night on the river.” 

“She’ll be sure to say it’s my fault if you get 
muddy, and you’re quite near enough to the 


234 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


break-water. Maisie, that’s not fair. Ah! I 
knew you’d miss. Low and to the left, dear. 
But you’ve no conviction. Everything in the 
world except conviction. Don’t be angry, dar- 
ling. I’d cut my hand off if it would give you 
anything more than obstinacy. My right hand, 
if it would serve.” 

“Now we must listen. Here’s an island 
shouting across seas of misunderstanding with 
a vengeance. But it’s shouting truth, I fancy,” 
said Torpenhow. 

The babble continued. It all bore upon Mai- 
sie. Sometimes Dick lectured at length on his 
craft, then he cursed himself for his folly in 
being enslaved. He pleaded to Maisie for a 
kiss — only one kiss — before she went away, 
and called to her to come back from Vitry-sur- 
Marne, if she would; but through all his rav- 
ings he bade heaven and earth witness that the 
queen could do no wrong. 

Torpenhow listened attentively, and learned 
every detail of Dick’s life that had been hidden 
from him. For three days Dick raved through 
his past, and then slept a natural sleep. “What 
a strain he has been running under, poor chap !” 
said Torpenhow. “Dick, of all men, handing 
himself over like a dog! And I was lecturing 
him on arrogance. I ought to have known 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 235 


that it was no use to judge a man. But I did 
it. What a demon that girl must be! Dick’s 
given her his life, — confound him! — and she’s 
given him one kiss apparently.” 

“Torp,” said Dick from the bed, “go out for 
a walk. You’ve been here too long. I’ll get up. 
Hi! This is annoying. I can’t dress myself. 
Oh, it’s too absurd!” 

Torpenhow helped him into his clothes and 
led him to the big chair in the studio. He sat 
quietly waiting under strained nerves for the 
darkness to lift. It did not lift that day, nor 
the next. Dick adventured on a voyage round 
the walls. He hit his shins against the stove, 
and this suggested to him that it would be bet- 
ter to crawl on all-fours, one hand in front of 
him. Torpenhow found him on the floor. 

“I’m trying to get the geography of my new 
possessions,” said he. “D’you remember that 
nigger you gouged in the square? Pity you 
didn’t keep the odd eye. It would have been 
useful. Any letters for me? Give me all the 
ones in fat grey envelopes with a sort of crown 
thing outside. They’re of no importance.” 

Torpenhow gave him a letter with a black M 
on the envelope flap. Dick put it into his 
pocket. There was nothing in it that Torpen- 
how might not have read, but it belonged to 


236 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


himself and to Maisie, who would never belong 
to him. 

“When she finds that I don’t write, she’ll 
stop writing. It’s better so. I couldn’t be any 
use to her now,” Dick argued, and the tempter 
suggested that he should make known his con- 
dition. Every nerve in him revolted. “I have 
fallen low enough already. I’m not going to 
beg for pity. Besides, it would be cruel to 
her.” He strove to put Maisie out of his 
thoughts; but the blind have many opportuni- 
ties for thinking, and as the tides of his 
strength came back to him in the long employ- 
less days of dead darkness, Dick’s soul was 
troubled to the core. Another letter, and an- 
other, came from Maisie. Then there was 
silence, and Dick sat by the window, the pulse 
of summer in the air, and pictured her being 
won by another man stronger than himself. 
His imagination, the keener for the dark back- 
ground it worked against, spared him no sin- 
gle detail that might send him raging up and 
down the studio, to stumble over the stove that 
seemed to be in four places at once. Worst of 
all, tobacco would not taste in the darkness. 
The arrogance of the man had disappeared, 
and in its place were settled despair that Tor- 
penhow knew, and blind passion that Dick con- 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 237 


fided to his pillow at night. The intervals be- 
tween the paroxysms were filled with intolera- 
ble waiting and the weight of intolerable dark- 
ness. 

“Come out into the Park,” said Torpenhow. 
“You haven’t stirred out since the beginning of 
things.” 

“What’s the use? There’s no movement in 
the dark; and, besides,” — he paused irreso- 
lutely at the head of the stairs, — “something 
will run over me.” 

“Not if I’m with you. Proceed gingerly.” 

The roar of the streets filled Dick with nerv- 
ous terror, and he clung to Torpenhow’s arm. 
“Fancy having to feel for a gutter with your 
foot !” he said, petulantly, as he turned into the 
Park. “Let’s curse God and die.” 

“Sentries are forbidden to pay unauthorized 
compliments. By Jove, there are the Guards !” 

Dick’s figure straightened. “Let’s get near 
’em. Let’s go in and look. Let’s get on the 
grass and run. I can smell the trees.” 

“Mind the low railing. That’s all right!” 
Torpenhow kicked out a tuft of grass with his 
heel. “Smell that,” he said. “Isn’t it good?” 
Dick snuffed luxuriously. “Now pick up your 
feet and run.” They approached as near to the 
regiment as was possible. The clank of bayo- 


238 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


nets being unfixed made Dick’s nostrils quiver. 

“Let’s get nearer. They’re in column, aren’t 
they?” 

“Yes. How did you know?” 

“Felt it. Oh, my men! — my beautiful men!” 
He edged forward as though he could see. “I 
could draw those chaps once. Who’ll draw ’em 
now ?” 

“They’ll move off in a minute. Don’t jump 
when the band begins.” 

“Huh ! I’m not a new charger. It’s the si- 
lences that hurt. Nearer, Torp! — nearer! Oh, 
my God, what wouldn’t I give to see ’em for a 
minute ! — one half minute !” 

He could hear the armed life almost within 
reach of him, could hear the slings tighten 
across the bandsman’s chest as he heaved the 
big drum from the ground. 

“Sticks crossed above his head,” whispered 
Torpenhow. 

“I know. / know ! Who should know if I 
don’t? H’sh !” 

The drum-sticks fell with a boom, and the 
men swung forward to the crash of the band. 
Dick felt the wind of the massed movement in 
his face, heard the maddening tramp of feet 
and the friction of the pouches on the belts. 
The big drum pounded out the tune. It was a 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 239 

music-hall refrain that made a perfect quick- 
step — 

He must be a man of decent height, 

He must be a man of weight, 

He must come home on a Saturday night 
In a thoroughly sober state; 

He must know how to love me, 

And he must know how to kiss; 

And if he’s enough to keep us both 
I can’t refuse him bliss. 

“What’s the matter?” said Torpenhow, as he 
saw Dick’s head fall when the last of the regi- 
ment had departed. 

“Nothing. I feel a little bit out of the run- 
ning, — that’s all. Torp, take me back. Why 
did you bring me out?” 


CHAPTER XII 


There were three friends that buried the fourth. 
The mould in his mouth and the dust in his eyes; 

And they went south and east, and north, — 

The strong man fights, but the sick man dies. 

There were three 'riends that spoke of the dead, — 
The strong man fights, but the sick man dies. — 
“And would he were here with us now,” they said, 
“The sun in our face and the wind in our eyes.” 

— Ballad. 

The Nilghai was angry with Torpenhow, 
Dick had been sent to bed, — blind men are ever 
under the orders of those who can see, — and 
since he had returned from the Park had flu- 
ently sworn at Torpenhow because he was 
alive, and all the world because it was alive and 
could see, while he, Dick, was dead in the 
death of the blind, who, at the best, are only 
burdens upon their associates. Torpenhow had 
said something about a Mrs. Gummidge, and 
Dick had retired in a black fury to handle and 
rehandle three unopened letters from Maisie. 

The Nilghai, fat, burly, and aggressive, was 
in Torpenhow’s rooms. Behind him sat the 
240 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 241 


Keneu, the Great War Eagle, and between 
them lay a large map embellished with black 
and white-headed pins. 

“I was wrong about the Balkans,” said the 
Nilghai. “But Em not wrong about this busi- 
ness. The whole of our work in the Southern 
Soudan must be done over again. The public 
doesn’t care, of course, but the government 
does, and they are making their arrangements 
quietly. You know that as well as I do.” 

“I remember how the people cursed us when 
our troops withdrew from Omdurman. It was 
bound to crop up sooner or later. But I can’t 
go,” said Torpenhow. He pointed through the 
open door ; it was a hot night. “Can you blame 
me ?” 

The Keneu purred above his pipe like a large 
and very happy cat — 

“Don’t blame you in the least. It’s uncom- 
monly good of you, and all the rest of it, but 
every man — even you, Torp — must consider 
his work I know it sounds brutal, but Dick’s 
out of the race, — down, — gastados, expended, 
finished, done for. He has a little money of 
his own. He won’t starve, and you can’t pull 
out of your slide for his sake. Think of your 
own reputation.” 

“Dick’s was five times bigger than mine and 
yours put together.” 


242 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“That was because he signed his name to 
everything he did. It’s all ended now. You 
must hold yourself in readiness to move out. 
You can command your own prices, and you do 
better work than any three of us.” 

“Don’t tell me how tempting it is. I’ll stay 
here to look after Dick for a while. He’s as 
cheerful as a bear with a sore head, but I think 
he likes to have me near him.” 

The Nilghai said something uncomplimen- 
tary about soft-headed fools who throw away 
their careers for other fools. Torpenhow 
flushed angrily. The constant strain of atten- 
dance on Dick had worn his nerves thin. 

“There remains a third fate,” said the Ke- 
neu, thoughtfully. “Consider this, and be not 
larger fools than is necessary. Dick is — or 
rather was — an able-bodied man of moderate 
attractions and a certain amount of audacity.” 

“Oho!” said the Nilghai, who remembered 
an affair at Cairo. “I begin to see. — Torp, 
I’m sorry.” 

Torpenhow nodded forgiveness : “You were 
more sorry when he cut you out, though. — Go 
on Keneu.” 

“I’ve often thought, when I’ve seen men die 
out in the desert, that if the news could be sent 
through the world, and the means of transport 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 243 


were quick enough, there would be one woman 
at least at each man’s bedside.” 

“There would be some mighty quaint revela- 
tions. Let us be grateful things are as they 
are,” said the Nilghai. 

“Let us rather reverently consider whether 
Torp’s three-cornered ministrations are exactly 
what Dick needs just now. — What do you 
think yourself, Torp?” 

“I know they aren’t. But what can I do?” 

“Lay the matter before the board. We are 
all Dick’s friends here. You’ve been most in 
his life.” 

“But I picked it up when he was off his 
head.” 

“The greater chance of its being true. I 
thought we should arrive. Who is she ?” 

Then Torpenhow told a tale in plain words, 
as a special correspondent who knows- how to 
make a verbal precis should tell it. The men 
listened without interruption. 

“Is it possible that a man can come back 
across the years to his calf-love ?” said the Ke- 
neu. “Is it possible ?” 

“I give the facts. He says nothing about it 
now, but he sits fumbling three letters from her 
when he thinks I’m not looking. What am I 
to do?” 


244 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“Speak to him,” said the Nilghai. 

“Oh, yes! Write to her, — I don’t know her 
full name, remember, — and ask her to accept 
him out of pity. I believe you once told Dick 
you were sorry for him, Nilghai. You re- 
member what happened, eh ? Go into the bed- 
room and suggest full confession and an appeal 
to this Maisie girl, whoever she is. I honestly 
believe he’d try to kill you; and the blindness 
has made him rather muscular.” 

“Torpenhow’s course is perfectly clear,” said 
the Keneu. “He will go to Vitry-sur-Marne, 
which is on the Bezieres-Landes Railway, — 
single track from Tourgas. The Prussians 
shelled it out in ’70 because there was a poplar 
on the top of a hill eighteen hundred yards 
from the church spire. There’s a squadron of 
cavalry quartered there, — or ought to be. 
Where this studio Torp spoke about may be I 
cannot tell. That is Torp’s business. I have 
given him his route. He will dispassionately 
explain the situation to the girl, and she will 
come back to Dick, — the more especially be- 
cause, to use Dick’s words, ‘there is nothing 
but her damned obstinacy to keep them 
apart.’ ” 

“And they have four hundred and twenty 
pounds a year between ’em. Dick never lost 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 245 


his head for figures, even in his delirium. You 
haven’t the shadow of an excuse for not go- 
ing,” said the Nilghai. 

Torpenhow looked very uncomfortable. 
“But it’s absurd and impossible. I can’t drag 
her back by the hair.” 

“Our business — the business for which we 
draw our money — is to do absurd and impossi- 
ble things, — generally with no reason whatever 
except to amuse the public. Here we have a 
reason. The rest doesn’t matter. I shall share 
these rooms with the Nilghai till Torpenhow 
returns. There will be a batch of unbridled 
‘specials’ coming to town in a little while, and 
these will serve as their headquarters. Another 
reason for sending Torpenhow away. Thus 
Providence helps those who help others, and” 
— here the Keneu dropped his measured speech 
— “we can’t have you tied by the leg to Dick 
when the trouble begins. It’s your only chance 
of getting away ; and Dick will be grateful.” 

“He will, — worse luck! I can but go and 
try. I can’t conceive a woman in her senses re- 
fusing Dick.” 

“Talk that out with the girl. I have seen 
you wheedle an angry Mahdieh woman into 
giving you dates. This won’t be a tithe as dif- 
ficult. You had better not be here to-morrow 


246 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


afternoon, because the Nilghai and I will be in 
possession. It is an order. Obey.” 

“Dick,” said Torpenhow next morning, “can 
I do anything for you?” 

“No! Leave me alone. How often must I 
remind you that I’m blind ?” 

“Nothing I could go for to fetch for to carry 
for to bring?” 

“No. Take those infernal creaking boots of 
yours away.” 

“Poor chap! said Torpenhow to himself. 
“I must have been sitting on his nerves lately. 
He wants a lighter step.” Then, aloud, “Very 
well. Since you’re so independent, I’m going 
off for four or five days. Say good-bye at 
least. The housekeeper will look after you, 
and Keneu has my rooms.” 

Dick’s face fell. “You won’t be longer than 
a week at the outside ? I know I’m touched in 
the temper, but I can’t get on without you.” 

“Can’t you? You’ll have to do without me 
in a little time, and you’ll be glad I’m gone.” 

Dick felt his way back to the big chair, and 
wondered what these things might mean. He 
did not wish to be tended by the housekeeper, 
and yet Torpenhow’s constant tenderness 
jarred on him. He did not exactly know what 
he wanted. The darkness would not lift, and 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 247 


Maisie’s unopened letters felt worn and old 
from much handling. He could never read 
them for himself as long as life endured; but 
Maisie might have sent him some fresh ones 
to play with. The Nilghai entered with a gift, 
— a piece of red modeling-wax. He fancied 
that Dick might find interest in using his hands. 
Dick poked and patted the stuff for a few min- 
utes, and, “Is it like anything in the world?” 
he said, drearily. “Take it away. I may get 
the touch of the blind in fifty years. Do you 
know where Torpenhow has gone?” 

The Nilghai knew nothing. “We’re staying 
in his rooms till he comes back. Can we do 
anything for you?” 

“Fd like to be left alone, please. Don’t think 
I’m ungrateful ; but I’m best alone.” 

The Nilghai chuckled, and Dick resumed his 
drowsy brooding and sullen rebellion against 
fate. He had long since ceased to think about 
the work he had done in the old days, and the 
desire to do more work had departed from him. 
He was exceedingly sorry for himself, and the 
completeness of his tender grief soothed him. 
But his soul and his body cried for Maisie, — 
Maisie who would understand. His mind 
pointed out that Maisie, having her own work 
to do, would not care. His experience had 


248 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


taught him that when money was exhausted 
women yrent away, and that when a man was 
knocked out of the race the others trampled on 
him. “Then at the least,” said Dick, in reply, 
“she could use me as I used Binat, — for some 
sort of a study. I wouldn't ask more than to be 
near her again, even though I knew that an- 
other man was making love to her. Ugh! 
what a dog I am!” 

A voice on the staircase began to sing joy- 
fully— 

When we go — go — go away from here. 

Our creditors will weep and they will wail, 

Our absence much regretting when they find that we’ve 
been getting 

Out of England by next Tuesday’s Indian mail. 

Following the trampling of feet, slamming 
of Torpenhow’s door, and the sound of voices 
in strenuous debate, some one squeaked, “And 
see, you good fellows, I have found a new 
water-bottle, — fir’-class patent — eh, how you 
say? Open himself inside out.” 

Dick sprang to his feet. He knew the voice 
well. “That’s Cassavetti, come back from the 
Continent. Now I know why Torp went away. 
There’s a row somewhere, and — I’m out of it !” 

The Nilghai commanded silence in vain. 
“That’s for my sake,” Dick said, bitterly. “The 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 249 


birds are getting ready to fly, and they 
wouldn’t tell me. I can hear Morten-Suther- 
land and Mackaye. Half the War Correspond- 
ents in London are there; — and I’m out of it.” 

He stumbled across the landing and plunged 
into Torpenhow’s room. He could feel that it 
was full of men. “Where’s the trouble ?” said 
he. “In the Balkans at last ? Why didn’t some 
one tell me?” 

“We thought you wouldn’t be interested,” 
said the Nilghai, shamefacedly. “It’s in the 
Soudan, as usual.” 

“You lucky dogs ! Let me sit here while you 
talk. I shan’t be a skeleton at the feast. — Cas- 
savetti, where are you? Your English is as 
bad as ever.” 

Dick was led into a chair. He heard the 
rustle of the maps, and the talk swept forward, 
carrying him with it. Everybody spoke at 
once, discussing press censorships, railway- 
routes, transport, water-supply, the capacities 
of generals, — these in language that would 
have horrified a trusting public, — ranting, as- 
serting, denouncing, and laughing at the top 
of their voices. There was the glorious cer- 
tainty of war in the Soudan at any moment. 
The Nilghai said so, and it was well to be in 
readiness. The Keneu had telegraphed to Cai- 


250 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


ro for horses ; Cassavetti had stolen a perfectly 
inaccurate list of troops that would be ordered 
forward, and was reading it out amid profane 
interruptions, and the Keneu introduced to 
Dick some man unknown who would be em- 
ployed as war artist by the Central Southern 
Syndicate. “It’s his first outing,” said the Ke- 
neu. “Give him some tips — about riding cam- 
els.” 

“Oh, those camels !” groaned Cassavetti. “I 
shall learn to ride him again, and now I am so 
much all soft! Listen, you good fellows. I 
know your military arrangement very well. 
There will go the Royal Argalshire Suther- 
landers. So it was read to me upon best au- 
thority.” 

A roar of laughter interrupted him. 

“Sit down,” said Nilghai. “The lists aren’t 
even made out in the War Office.” 

“Will there be any force at Suakin?” said a 
voice. 

Then the outcries redoubled, and grew 
mixed, thus: “How many Egyptian troops 
will they use? — God help the Fellaheen! — 
There’s a railway in Plumstead marshes doing 
duty as a fives-court. — We shall have the Sua- 
kin-Berber line built at last. — Canadian voy- 
agers are too careful. Give me a half-drunk 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 251 


Krooman in a whale-boat. — Who commands 
the Desert column? — No, they never blew up 
the big rock in the Ghineh bend. We shall 
have to be hauled up, as usual. — Somebody tell 
me if there’s an Indian contingent, or I’ll break 
everybody’s head. — Don’t tear the map in two. 
— It’s a war of occupation, I tell you, to con- 
nect with the African companies in the South. 
— There’s Guinea-worm in most of the wells 
on that route.” Then the Nilghai, despairing 
of peace, bellowed like a fog-horn and beat 
upon the table with both hands. 

“But what becomes of Torpenhow?” said 
Dick, in the silence that followed. 

“Torp’s in abeyance just now. He’s off love- 
making somewhere, I suppose,” said the Nil- 
ghai. 

“He said he was going to stay at home,” 
said the Keneu. 

“Is he ?” said Dick with an oath. “He won’t. 
I’m not much good now, but if you and the 
Nilghai hold him down I’ll engage to trample 
on him till he sees reason. He stay behind, in- 
deed! He’s the best of you all. There’ll be 
some tough work by Omdurman. We shall 
come there to stay, this time. But I forgot. I 
wish I were going with you.” 

“So do we all, Dickie,” said the Keneu. 


252 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“And I most of all,” said the new artist of 
the Central Southern Syndicate. “Could you 
tell me”— 

“I’ll give you one piece of advice,” Dick an- 
swered, moving toward the door. “If you hap- 
pen to be cut over the head in a scrimmage, 
don’t guard. Tell the man to go on cutting. 
You’ll find it cheapest in the end. Thanks for 
letting me look in.” 

“There’s grit in Dick,” said the Nilghai, an 
hour later, when the room was emptied of all 
save the Keneu. 

“It was the sacred call of the war-trumpet. 
Did you notice how he answered to it? Poor 
fellow ! Let’s look at him,” said the Keneu. 

The excitement of the talk had died away. 
Dick was sitting by the studio table, with his 
head on his arms, when the men came in. He 
did not change his position. 

“It hurts,” he moaned. “God forgive me, 
but it hurts cruelly ; and yet, y’know, the world 
has a knack of spinning round all by itself. 
Shall I see Torp before he goes?” 

“Oh, yes. You’ll see him,” said the Nilghai. 


CHAPTER XIII 


The sun went down an hour ago, 

I wonder if I face toward home, 

If I lost my way in the light of day 
How shall I find it now night is come? 

— Old Song. 


“Maisie, come to bed.” 

“It’s so hot I can’t sleep. Don’t worry.” 

Maisie put her elbows on the window-sill 
and looked at the moonlight on the straight, 
poplar-flanked road. Summer had come upon 
Vitry-sur-Marne and parched it to the bone. 
The grass was dry-burned in the meadows, the 
clay by the bank of the river was caked to 
brick, the roadside flowers were long since 
dead, and the roses in the garden hung with- 
ered on their stalks. The heat in the little low 
bedroom under the eaves was almost intoler- 
able. The very moonlight on the wall of 
Kami’s studio across the road seemed to make 
the night hotter, and the shadow of the big 
bell-handle by the closed gate cast a bar of 
inky black that caught Maisie’s eye and an- 
noyed her. 


253 


254 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“Horrid thing! It should be all white,” she 
murmured. “And the gate isn’t in the middle 
of the wall, either. I never noticed that be- 
fore.” 

Maisie was hard to please at that hour. 
First, the heat of the past few weeks had worn 
her down; secondly, her work, and particu- 
larly the study of a female head intended to 
represent the Melancolia and not finished in 
time for the Salon, was unsatisfactory; thirdly 
Kami had said as much two days before; 
fourthly, — but so completely fourthly that it 
was hardly worth thinking about, — Dick, her 
property, had not written to her for more than 
six weeks. She was angry with the heat, with 
Kami, and with her work, but she was exceed- 
ingly angry with Dick. 

She had written to him three times, — each 
time proposing a fresh treatment of her Mel- 
ancolia. Dick had taken no notice of these 
communications. She had resolved to write 
no more. When she returned to England in 
the autumn — for her pride’s sake she could not 
return earlier — she would speak to him. She 
missed the Sunday afternoon conferences 
more than she cared to admit. All that Kami 
said was, “ Continues , mademoiselle , continues , 
ton jours,” and he had been repeating his 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 255 


wearisome counsel through the hot summer, 
exactly like a cicala, — an old grey cicala in a 
black alpaca coat, white trousers, and a huge 
felt hat. But Dick had tramped masterfully 
up and down her little studio north of the cool 
green London park, and had said things ten 
times worse than continues, before he 
snatched the brush out of her hand and 
showed her where her error lay. His last let- 
ter, Maisie remembered, contained some trivial 
advice about not sketching in the sun or drink- 
ing water at wayside farmhouses ; and he had 
said that not once, but three times, — as if he 
did not know that Maisie could take care of 
herself. 

But what was he doing, that he could not 
trouble to write? A murmur of voices in the 
road made her lean from the window. A cav- 
alryman of the little garrison in the town was 
talking to Kami’s cook. The moonlight glit- 
tered on the scabbard of his sabre, which he 
was holding in his hand lest it should clank 
inopportunely. The cook’s cap cast deep shad- 
ows on her face, which was close to the con- 
script’s. He slid his arm round her waist, and 
there followed the sound of a kiss. 

“Faugh!” said Maisie, stepping back. 

“What’s that?” said the red-haired girl, 
who was tossing uneasily outside her bed. 


256 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“Only a conscript kissing the cook,” said 
Maisie. “They’ve gone away now.” She 
leaned out of the window again, and put a 
shawl over her nightgown to guard against 
chills. There was a very small night-breeze 
abroad, and a sun-baked rose below nodded its 
head as one who knew unutterable secrets. 
Was it possible that Dick should turn his 
thoughts from her work and his own and de- 
scend to the degradation of Suzanne and the 
conscript ? He could not ! The rose nodded its 
head and one leaf therewith. It looked like a 
naughty little devil scratching its ear. Dick 
could not, “because,” thought Maisie, “he is 
mine, — mine, — mine. He said he was. I’m 
sure I don’t care what he does. It will only 
spoil his work if he does; and it will spoil 
mine too. 

The rose continued to nod in the futile way 
peculiar to flowers. There was no earthly rea- 
son why Dick should not disport himself as he 
chose, except that he was called by Providence, 
which was Maisie, to assist Maisie in her work. 
And her work was the preparation of pictures 
that went sometimes to English provincial ex- 
hibitions, as the notices in the scrapbook 
proved, and that were invariably rejected by 
the Salon when Kami was plagued into allow- 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 257 


ing her to send them up. Her work in the fu- 
ture, it seemed, would be the preparation of 
pictures on exactly similar lines, which would 
be rejected in exactly the same way. 

The red-haired girl thrashed distressfully 
across tjbe sheets. “It’s too hot to sleep,” she 
moaned, and the interruption jarred. 

Exactly the same way. Then she would di- 
vide her years between the little studio in Eng- 
land and Kami’s big studio at Vitry-sur-Marne 
No, she would go to another master, who 
should force her into the success that was her 
right, if patient toil and desperate endeavor 
gave one a right to anything. Dick had told 
her that he had worked ten years to understand 
his craft. She had worked ten years, and ten 
years were nothing. Dick had said that ten 
years were nothing, — but that was in regard 
to herself only. He had said — this very man 
who could not find time to write — that he 
would wait ten years for her, and that she was 
bound to come back to him sooner or later. He 
had said this in the absurd letter about sun- 
stroke and diphtheria ; and then he had stopped 
writing. He was wandering up and down 
moonlit streets, kissing cooks. She would like 
to lecture him now, — not in her nightgown, of 
course, but properly dressed, severely and from 


258 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


a height. Yet if he was kissing other girls he 
certainly would not care whether she lectured 
him or not. He would laugh at her. Very 
good. She would go back to her studio and 
prepare pictures that went, etc., etc. The mill- 
wheel of thought swung round slowly, that no 
section of it might be slurred over, and the 
red-haired girl tossed and turned behind her. 

Maisie put her chin in her hands and de- 
cided that there could be no doubt whatever of 
the villany of Dick. To justify herself, she be- 
gan, unwomanly, to weigh the evidence. There 
was a boy, and he had said he loved her. And 
he kissed her, — kissed her on the cheek, — by 
a yellow sea-poppy that nodded its head exact- 
ly like the maddening dry rose in the garden. 
Then there was an interval, and men had told 
her that they loved her — just when she was 
busiest with her work. Then the boy came 
back, and at their very second meeting had 
told her that he loved her. Then he had — But 
there was no end to the things he had done. 
He had given her his time and his powers. He 
had spoken to her of Art, housekeeping, tech- 
nique, teacups, the abuse of pickles as a stim- 
ulant, — that was rude, — sable hair-brushes, — 
he had given her the best in her stock, — she 
used them daily ; he had given her advice that 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 259 


she profited by, and now and again — a look. 
Such a look! The look of a beaten hound 
waiting for the word to crawl to his mistress’s 
feet. In return she had given him nothing 
whatever, except — here she brushed her mouth 
against the open-work sleeve of her night- 
gown — the privilege of kissing her once. And 
on the mouth, too. Disgraceful! Was that 
not enough, and more than enough? and if 
it was not, had he not cancelled the debt by 
not writing and — probably kissing other girls ? 

“Maisie, you’ll catch a chill. Do go and lie 
down,” said the wearied voice of her com- 
panion. “I can’t sleep a wink with you at 
the window.” 

Maisie shrugged her shoulders and did not 
answer. She was reflecting on the meannesses 
of Dick, and on other meannesses with which 
he had nothing to do. The remorseless moon- 
light would not let her sleep. It lay on the 
skylight of the studio across the road in cold 
silver ; she stared at it intently and her thoughts 
began to slide one into the other. The shadow 
of the big bell-handle in the wall grew short, 
lengthened again, and faded out as the moon 
went down behind the pasture and a hare 
came limping home across the road. Then the 
dawn-wind washed through the upland grasses, 


260 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


and brought coolness with it, and the cattle 
lowed by the drought-shrunk river. Maisie’s 
head fell forward on the window-sill, and the 
tangle of black hair covered her arms. 

“Maisie, wake up. You’ll catch a chill.” 

“Yes, dear; yes, dear.” She staggered to 
her bed like a wearied child, and as she buried 
her face in the pillows she muttered, “I think 
— I think. . . . But he ought to have writ- 
ten.” 

Day brought the routine of the studio, the 
smell of paint and turpentine, and the monoto- 
nous wisdom of Kami, who was a leaden art- 
ist, but a golden teacher if the pupil were on- 
ly in sympathy with him. Maisie was not in 
sympathy that day, and she waited impatient- 
ly for the end of the work. She knew when 
it was coming; for Kami would gather his 
black alpaca coat into a bunch behind him, and, 
with faded blue eyes that saw neither pupils 
nor canvas, look back into the past to recall 
the history of one Binat. “You have all done 
not so badly,” he would say. “But you shall 
remember that it is not enough to have the 
method, and the art, and the power, nor even 
that which is touch, but you shall have also 
the conviction that nails the work to the wall. 
Of the so many I have taught,” — here the stu- 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 261 


dents would begin to unfix drawing-pins or get 
their tubes together, — “the very so many that 
I have taught, the best was Binat. All that 
comes of the study and the work and the 
knowledge was to him even when he came. Af- 
ter he left me he should have done all that 
could be done with the color, the form, and 
the knowledge. Only, he had not the convic- 
tion. So to-day I hear no more of Binat, — 
the best of my pupils, — and that is long ago. 
So to-day, too, you will be glad to hear no 
more of me. Continues, mesdemoiselles, and, 
above all, with conviction.” 

He went into the garden to smoke and 
mourn over the lost Binat as the pupils dis- 
persed to their several cottages or loitered in 
the studio to make plans for the cool of the 
afternoon. 

Maisie looked at her very unhappy Melan- 
colia, restrained a desire to grimace before it, 
and was hurrying across the road to write a 
letter to Dick, when she was aware of a large 
man on a white troop-horse. How Torpenhow 
had managed in the course of twenty hours to 
find his way to the hearts of the cavalry offi- 
cers in quarters at Vitry-sur-Marne, to discuss 
with them the certainty of a glorious revenge 
for France, to reduce the colonel to tears of 


262 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


pure affability, and to borrow the best horse 
in the squadron for the journey to Kami’s 
studio, is a mystery that only special corre- 
spondents can unravel. 

“I beg your pardon,” said he. “It seems an 
absurd question to ask, but the fact is that I 
don’t know her by any other name: Is there 
any young lady here that is called Maisie?” 

“I am Maisie,” was the answer from the 
depths of a great sun-hat. 

“I ought to introduce myself,” he said, as 
the horse capered in the blinding white dust 
“My name is Torpenhow. Dick Heldar is my 
best friend, and — and — the fact is that he has 
gone blind.” 

“Blind!” said Maisie, stupidly. “He can’t 
be blind.” 

“He has been stone-blind for nearly two 
months.” 

Maisie lifted up her face, and it was pearly 
white. “No! No! Not blind! I won’t have 
him blind !” 

“Would you care to see for yourself?” said 
Torpenhow. 

“Now, — at once?” 

“Oh no ! The Paris train doesn’t go through 
this place till eight to-night. There will be 
ample time.” 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 263 


“Did Mr. Heldar send you to me?” 

“Certainly not. Dick wouldn’t do that sort 
of thing. He’s sitting in his studio, turning 
over some letters that he can’t read because 
he’s blind.” 

There was a sound of choking from the 
sun-hat. Maisie bowed her head and went in- 
to the cottage, where the red-haired girl was 
on a sofa, complaining of a headache. 

“Dick’s blind!” said Maisie, taking her 
breath quickly as she steadied herself against 
a chairback. “My Dick’s blind !” 

“What?” The girl was on the sofa no 
longer. 

“A man has come from England to tell me. 
He hasn’t written to me for six weeks.” 

“Are you going to him?” 

“I must think.” 

“Think! I should go back to London and 
see him, and I should kiss his eyes and kiss 
them and kiss them until they got well again! 
If you don’t go I shall. Oh, what am I talk- 
ing about? You wicked little idiot! Go to 
him at once. Go!” 

Torpenhow’s neck was blistering, but he pre- 
served a smile of infinite patience as Maisie 
appeared bare-headed in the sunshine. 

“I am coming,” said she, her eyes on the 
ground. 


264 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“You will be at Vitry Station, then, at sev- 
en this evening/’ This was an order delivered 
by one who was used to being obeyed. Maisie 
said nothing, but she felt grateful that there 
was no chance of disputing with this big man 
who took everything for granted and managed 
a squealing horse with one hand. She returned 
to the red-haired girl, who was weeping bit- 
terly, and between tears, kisses, — very few of 
those, — menthol, packing, and an interview 
with Kami, the sultry afternoon wore away. 
Thought might come afterward. Her present 
duty was to go to Dick, — Dick who owned the 
wondrous friend and sat in the dark playing 
with her unopened letters. 

“But what will you do?” she said to her 
companion. 

“I? Oh, I shall stay here and — finish your 
Melancolia,” she said, smiling pitifully. “Write 
to me afterward.” 

That night there ran a legend through Virty- 
sur-Marne of a mad Englishman, doubtless 
suffering from sunstroke, who had drunk all 
the officers of the garrison under the table, had 
borrowed a horse from the lines, and had then 
and there eloped, after the English custom, 
with one of those more than mad English girls 
who drew pictures down there under the care 
of that good Monsieur Kami. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 265 


“They are very droll,” said Suzanne to the 
conscript in the moonlight by the studio wall. 
“She walked always with those big eyes that 
saw nothin, and yet she kisses me on both 
cheeks as though she were my sister, and gives 
me — see — ten francs!” 

The conscript levied a contribution on both 
gifts; for he prided himself on being a good 
soldier. 

Torpenhow spoke very little to Maisie dur- 
ing the journey to Calais; but he was careful 
to attend to all her wants, to get her a com- 
partment entirely to herself, and to leave her 
alone. He was amazed at the ease with which 
the matter had been accomplished. 

“The safest thing would be to let her think 
things out. By Dick’s showing, — when he 
was off his head, — she must have ordered him 
about very thoroughly. Wonder how she likes 
being under orders.” 

Maisie never told. She sat in the empty 
compartment, often with her eyes shut, that she 
might realize the sensation of blindness. It 
was an order that she should return to Lon- 
don swiftly, and she found herself at last al- 
most beginning to enjoy the situation. This 
was better than looking after luggage and a 
red-haired friend who never took any interest 


266 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


in her surroundings. But there appeared to 
be a feeling in the air that she, Maisie, — of all 
people, — was in disgrace. Therefore she jus- 
tified her conduct to herself with great suc- 
cess, till Torpenhow came up to her on the 
steamer and without preface began to tell the 
story of Dick’s blindness, suppressing a few 
details, but dwelling at length on the miseries 
of delirium. He stopped before he reached 
the end, as though he had lost interest in the 
subject, and went forward to smoke. Maisie 
was furious with him and with herself. 

She was hurried on from Dover to London 
almost before she could ask for breakfast, and 
— she was past any feeling of indignation now 
— was bidden curtly to wait in a hall at the 
foot of some lead-covered stairs while Torpen- 
how went up to make inquiries. Again the 
knowledge that she was being treated like a 
naughty little girl made her pale cheeks flame. 
It was all Dick’s fault for being so stupid as 
to go blind. 

Torpenhow led her up to a shut door, which 
he opened very softly. Dick was sitting by the 
window, with his chin on his chest. There 
were three envelopes in his hand, and he turned 
them over and over. The big man who gave 
orders was no longer by her side, and the 
studio door snapped behind her. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 267 


Dick thrust the letters into his pocket as he 
heard the sound. “Hullo, Torp! Is that you? 
Eve been so lonely.” 

His voice had taken the peculiar flatness of 
the blind. Maisie pressed herself up into a 
corner of the room. Her heart was beating 
furiously, and she put one hand on her breast 
to keep it quiet. Dick was staring directly at 
her, and she realized for the first time that he 
was blind. Shutting her eyes in a railway-car- 
riage to open them when she pleased was 
child’s play. This man was blind, though his 
eyes were wide open. 

“Torp, is that you? They said you were 
coming.” Dick looked puzzled and a little 
irritated at the silence. 

“No: it’s only me,” was the answer, in a 
strained little whisper. Maisie could hardly 
move her lips. 

“H’m!” said Dick, composedly, without 
moving. “This is a new phenomenon. Dark- 
ness I’m getting used to; but I object to hear- 
ing voices.” 

Was he mad, then, as well as blind, that he 
talked to himself? Maisie’s heart beat more 
wildly, and she breathed in gasps. Dick rose 
and began to feel his way across the room, 
touching each table and chair as he passed. 


268 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


Once he caught his foot on a rug, and swore, 
dropping on his knees to feel what the ob- 
struction might be. Maisie remembered him 
walking in the Park as though all the earth 
belonged to him, tramping up and down her 
studio two months ago, and flying up the gang- 
way of the Channel steamer. The beating of 
her heart was making her sick, and Dick was 
coming nearer, guided by the sound of her 
breathing. She put out a hand mechanically 
to ward him off or to draw him to herself, she 
did not know which. It touched his chest, and 
he stepped back as though he had been shot. 

“It’s Maisie !” said he, with a dry sob. 
“What are you doing here?” 

“I came — I came — to see you, please.” 

Dick’s lips closed firmly. 

“Won’t you sit down, then? You see, I’ve 
had some bother with my eyes, and” — • 

“I know. I know. Why didn’t you tell 
me?” 

“I couldn’t write.” 

“You might have told Mr. Torpenhow.” 

“What has he to do with my affairs?” 

“He — he brought me from Vitry-sur-Marne. 
He thought I ought to see you.” 

“Why, what has happened ? Can I do any- 
thing for you? No, I can’t. I forgot.” 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 269 


“Oh, Dick, I’m so sorry! I’ve come to tell 
you, and — Let me take you back to your 
chair.” 

“Don’t ! I’m not a child. You only do that 
out of pity. I never meant to tell you any- 
thing about it. I’m no good now. I’m down 
and done for. Let me alone !” 

He groped back to his chair, his chest la- 
boring as he sat down. 

Maisie watched him, and the fear went out 
of her heart, to be followed by a very bitter 
shame. He had spoken a truth that had been 
hidden from the girl through every step of the 
impetuous flight to London; for he was, in- 
deed, down and done for — masterful no longer 
but rather a little abject; neither an artist 
stronger than she, nor a man to be looked up 
to — only some blind one that sat in a chair 
and seemed on the point of crying. She was 
immensely and unfeignedly sorry for him — 
more sorry than she had ever been for any one 
in her life, but not sorry enough to deny his 
words. So she stood still and felt ashamed 
and a little hurt, because she had honestly in- 
tended that her journey should end trium- 
phantly ; and now she was only filled with pity 
most startlingly distinct from love. 

“Well?” said Dick, his face steadily turned 


270 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


away. “I never meant to worry you any 
more. What’s the matter?” 

He was conscious that Maisie was catching 
her breath, but was as unprepared as herself 
for the torrent of emotion that followed. Peo- 
ple who cannot cry easily weep unrestrainedly 
when the fountains of the great deep are brok- 
en up. She had dropped into a chair and was 
sobbing with her face hidden in her hands. 

“I can’t — I can’t!” she cried, desperately. 
“Indeed, I can’t. It isn’t my fault. I’m so 
sorry. Oh, Dickie, I’m so sorry.” 

Dick’s shoulders straightened again, for the 
words lashed like a whip. Still the sobbing 
continued. It is not good to realize that you 
have failed in the hour of trial or flinched be- 
fore the mere possibility of making sacrifices. 

“I do despise myself — indeed I do. But I 
can’t. Oh, Dickie, you wouldn’t ask me — 
would you?” wailed Maisie. 

She looked up for a minute, and by chance 
it happened that Dick’s eyes fell on hers. The 
unshaven face was very white and set, and the 
lips were trying to force themselves into a 
smile. But it was the worn-out eyes that 
Maisie feared. Her Dick had gone blind and 
left in his place some one that she could hard- 
ly recognize till he spoke. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 271 


“Who is asking you to do anything, Maisie ? 
I told you how it would be. What’s the use 
of worrying? For pity’s sake don’t cry like 
that; it isn’t worth it.” 

“You don’t know how I hate myself. Oh, 
Dick, help me — help me!” The passion of 
tears had grown beyond her control and was 
beginning to alarm the man. He stumbled 
forward and put his arm round her, and her 
head fell on his shoulder. 

“Hush, dear, hush! Don’t cry. You’re 
quite right, and you’ve nothing to reproach 
yourself with — you never had. You’re only 
a little upset by the journey, and I don’t sup- 
pose you’ve had any breakfast. What a brute 
Torp was to bring you over.” 

“I wanted to come. I did indeed,” she pro- 
tested. 

“Very well. And now you’ve come and 
seen, and I’m — immensely grateful. When 
you’re better you shall go away and get some- 
thing to eat. What sort of a passage did you 
have coming over?” 

Maisie was crying more subduedly, for the 
first time in her life glad that she had some- 
thing to lean against. Dick patted her on the 
shoulder tenderly but clumsily,, for he was not 
quite sure where her shoulder might be. 


272 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


She drew herself out of his arms at last and 
waited, trembling and most unhappy. He had 
felt his way to the window to put the width 
of the room between them, and to quiet a little 
the tumult in his heart. 

“Are you better now?” he said. 

“Yes, but — don’t you hate me?” 

“I hate you? My God! I?” 

“Isn’t — isn’t there anything I could do for 
you, then? I’ll stay here in England to do it, 
if you like. Perhaps I could come and see you 
sometimes.” 

“I think not, dear. It would be kindest not 
to see me any more, please. I don’t want to 
seem rude, but — don’t you think — perhaps you 
had almost better go now.” 

He was conscious that he could not bear 
himself as a man if the strain continued much 
longer. 

“I don’t deserve anything else. I’ll go Dick. 
Oh, I’m so miserable.” 

“Nonsense. You’ve nothing to worry about ; 
I’d tell you if you had. Wait a moment, dear. 
I’ve got something to give you first. I meant 
it for you ever since this little trouble began. 
It’s my Melancolia; she was a beauty when I 
last saw her. You can keep her for me, and 
if ever you’re poor you can sell her. She’s 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 273 


worth a few hundreds at any state of the mar- 
ket.” He groped among his canvases. “She’s 
framed in black. Is this a black frame that I 
have my hand on? There she is. What do 
you think of her?” 

He turned a scarred, formless muddle of 
paint toward Maisie, and the eyes strained as 
though they would catch her wonder and sur- 
prise. One thing and one thing only could she 
do for him. 

“Well?” 

The voice was fuller and more rounded, be- 
cause the man knew he was speaking of his 
best work. Maisie looked at the blur, and a 
lunatic desire to laugh caught her by the throat. 
But for Dick’s sake — whatever this mad blank- 
ness might mean — she must make no sign. Her 
voice choked with hard-held tears as she an- 
swered, still gazing on the wreck — 

“Oh, Dick, it is good !” 

He heard the little hysterical gulp and took 
it for tribute. Won’t you have it, then? I’ll 
send it over to your house if you will.” 

“I? Oh yes— thank you. Ha! ha!” If 
she did not fly at once the laughter that was 
worse than tears would kill her. She turned 
and ran, choking and blinded, down the stair- 
cases that were empty of life to take refuge in 


274 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


a cab and go to her house across the Parks. 
There she sat down in the almost dismantled 
drawing-room and thought of Dick in his 
blindness, useless till the end of life, and of 
herself in her own eyes. Behind the sorrow, 
the shame, and the humiliation, lay fear of the 
cold wrath of the red-haired girl, when Maisie 
should return. Maisie had never feared her 
companion before. Not until she found herself 
saying, “Well, he never asked me,” did she 
realize her scorn of herself. 

And that is the end of Maisie. 

For Dick was reserved more searching tor- 
ment. He could not realize at first that Maisie, 
whom he had ordered to go, had left him with- 
out a word of farewell. He was savagely an- 
gry against Torpenhow, who had brought up- 
on him this humiliation and troubled his mis- 
erable peace. Then his dark hour came and 
he was alone with himself and his desires to 
get what help he could from the darkness. The 
queen could do no wrong, but in following the 
right, so far as it served her work, she had 
wounded her one subject more than his own 
brain would let him know. 

“It’s all I had and I’ve lost it,” he said, as 
soon as the misery permitted clear thinking. 
“And Torp will think that he has been so in- 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 275 


fernally clever that I shan’t have the heart to 
tell him. I must think this out quietly.” 

“Hullo!” said Torpenhow, entering the 
studio after Dick had enjoyed two hours of 
thought. “I’m back. Are you feeling any bet- 
ter ?” 

“Torp, I don’t know what to say. Come 
here.” Dick coughed huskily, wondering, in- 
deed, what he should say, and how to say it 
temperately. 

“What’s the need for saying anything? Get 
up and tramp.” Torpenhow was perfectly sat- 
isfied. 

They walked up and down as of custom, 
Torpenhow’s hand on Dick’s shoulder, and 
Dick buried in his own thoughts. 

“How in the world did you find it all out?” 
said Dick at last. 

“You shouldn’t go off your head if you want 
to keep secrets, Dickie. It was absolutely im- 
pertinent on my part; but if you’d seen me 
rocketing about on a half-trained French troop- 
horse under a blazing sun you’d have laughed. 
There will be a charivari in my rooms to- 
night. Seven other devils” — 

“I know — the row in the Southern Soudan. 
I surprised their councils the other day, and 
it made me unhappy. Have you fixed your 
flint to go ? Who d’you work for ?” 


276 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“’Haven’t signed any contracts yet I want- 
ed to see how your business would turn out.” 

“ Would you have stayed with me, then, if — 
things had gone wrong?” He put his question 
cautiously. 

“Don’t ask me too much. I’m only a man.” 

“You’ve tried to be an angel very success- 
fully.” 

“Oh ye — es! . . . Well, do you attend the 
function to-night? We shall be half screwed 
before the morning. All the men believe the 
war’s a certainty.” 

“I don’t think I will, old man, if it’s all the 
same to you. I’ll stay quiet here.” 

“And meditate? I don’t blame you. You 
deserve a good time if ever a man did.” 

That night there was tumult on the stairs. 
The correspondents poured in from theatre, 
dinner, and music-hall to Torpenhow’s room 
that they might discuss their plan of campaign 
in the event of military operations being a cer- 
tainty. Torpenhow, the Keneu, and the Nil- 
ghai had bidden all the men they had worked 
with to the orgy; and Mr. Beeton, the house- 
keeper, declared that never before in his check- 
ered experience had he seen quite such a fancy 
lot of gentlemen. They waked the chambers 
with shoutings and song; and the elder men 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 277 


were quite as bad as the younger. For the 
chances of war were in front of them, and all 
knew what those meant. 

Sitting in his own room, a little perplexed 
by the noise across the landing, Dick suddenly 
began to laugh to himself. 

“When one comes to think of it the situa- 
tion is intensely comic. Maisie’s quite right — 
poor little thing. I didn’t know she could cry 
like that before; but now I know what Torp 
thinks, I’m sure he’d be quite fool enough to 
stay at home and try to console me — if he 
knew. Besides, it isn’t nice to own that you’ve 
been thrown over like a broken chair. I must 
carry this business through alone — as usual. If 
there isn’t a war, and Torp finds out, I shall 
look foolish, that’s all. If there is a war I 
mustn’t interfere with another man’s chances. 
Business is business, and I want to be alone — 
I want to be alone. What a row they’re mak- 
ing!” 

Somebody hammered at the studio door. 

“Come out and frolic, Dickie,” said the Nil- 
ghai. 

“I should like to, but I can’t. I’m not feeling 
frolicsome.” 

“Then I’ll tell the boys and they’ll draw 
you like a badger.” 


278 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“Please not, old man. On my word, Fd 
sooner be left alone just now.” 

“Very good. Can we send anything in to 
you? Fizz, for instance. Cassavetti is begin- 
ning to sing songs of the Sunny South al- 
ready.” 

For one minute Dick considered the propo- 
sition seriously. 

“No thanks. Fve a headache already.” 

“Virtuous child. That’s the effect of emo- 
tion on the young. All my congratulations, 
Dick. I also was concerned in the conspiracy 
for your welfare.” 

“Go to the devil and — oh, send Binkie in 
here.” 

The little dog entered on elastic feet, riotous 
from having been made much of all the even- 
ing. He had helped to sing the choruses; but 
scarcely inside the studio he realized that this 
was no place for tail-wagging, and settled him- 
self on Dick’s lap till it was bedtime. Then he 
went to bed with Dick, who counted every 
hour as it struck, and rose in the morning with 
a painfully clear head to receive Torpenhow’s 
more formal congratulations and a particular 
account of the last night’s revels. 

“You aren’t looking very happy for a new- 
ly-accepted man,” said Torpenhow. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 279 


“Never mind that — it's my own affair, and 
Fm all right. Do you really go?” 

“Yes. With the old Central Southern as 
usual. They wired and I accepted on better 
terms than before.” 

“When do you start?” 

“The day after tomorrow — for Brindisi.” 

“Thank God.” Dick spoke from the bottom 
of his heart. 

“Well, that’s not a pretty way of saying 
you’re glad to get rid of me. But men in your 
condition are allowed to be selfish.” 

“I didn’t mean that. Will you get a hun- 
dred pounds cashed for me before you leave?” 

“That’s a slender amount for housekeeping, 
isn’t it?” 

“Oh, it’s only for — marriage expenses.” 

Torpenhow brought him the money, count- 
ed it out in fives, and tens, and carefully put 
it away in the writing-table. 

“Now I suppose I shall have to listen to his 
ravings about his girl until I go. Heaven send 
us patience with a man in love!” said he to 
himself. 

But never a word did Dick say of Maisie or 
marriage. He hung in the doorway of Tor- 
penhow’s room when the latter was packing 
and asked innumerable questions about the 


280 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


coming campaign, till Torpenhow began to 
feel annoyed. 

“You’re a secretive animal, Dickie, and you 
consume your own smoke, don’t you?” he said 
on the last evening. 

“I — I suppose so. By the way, how long 
do you think this war will last ?” 

“Days, weeks, or months. One can never 
tell. It may go on for years.” 

“I wish I were going.” 

“Good heavens! You’re the most unac- 
countable creature ! Hasn’t it occurred to you 
that you’re going to be married — thanks to 
me ?” 

“Of course, yes. I’m going to be married 
— so I am. Going to be married. I’m awfully 
grateful to you. Haven’t I told you that?” 

“You might be going to be hanged by the 
look of you,” said Torpenhow. 

And the next day Torpenhow bade him 
good-bye, and left him to the loneliness he had 
so much desired. 


CHAPTER XIV 


Yet at the last, ere our spearmen had found him 
Yet at the last, ere a sword-thrust could save, 

Yet at the last, with his masters around him, 

He of the Faith spoke as master to slave; 

Yet at the last, tho’ the Kafirs had maimed him, 
Broken by bondage and wrecked by the reiver, — 

Yet at the last, tho’ the darkness had claimed him, 
He called upon Allah and died a believer. 

— Kmlbashi. 

“Beg your pardon, Mr. Heldar, but — but 
isn’t nothin’ going to happen?” said Mr. 
Beeton. 

“No!” Dick had just waked to another 
morning of blank despair and his temper was 
of the shortest. 

“’Tain’t my regular business o’ course, sir; 
and what I say is, ‘Mind your own business 
and let other people mind theirs’; but just be- 
fore Mr. Torpenhow went away he give me 
to understand, like, that you might be mov- 
ing into a house of your own, so to speak — a 
sort of house with rooms upstairs and down- 
stairs where you’d be better attended to, though 
I try to act just by all our tenants. Don’t I?” 

“Ah! That must have been a mad-house. 
281 


282 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


I shan’t trouble you to take me there yet. Get 
me my breakfast, please, and leave me alone.” 

“I hope I haven’t done anything wrong, sir, 
but you know I hope that as far as a man can 
I tries to do the proper thing by all the gen- 
tlemen in chambers — and more particular those 
whose lot is hard — such as you, for instance, 
Mr. Heldar. You likes soft-roe bloater, don’t 
you? Soft-roe bloaters is scarcer than hard- 
roe, but what I says is, ‘Never mind a little 
extra trouble so long as you gives satisfaction 
to the tenants.’ ” 

Mr. Beeton withdrew and left Dick to him- 
self. Torpenhow had been long away; there 
was no more rioting in the chambers, and Dick 
had settled down to his new life, which he was 
weak enough to consider nothing better than 
death. 

It is hard to live alone in the dark, confus- 
ing the day and night; dropping to sleep 
through sheer weariness at midday, and ris- 
ing restless in the chill of the dawn. At first 
Dick, on his awakenings, would grope along 
the corridors of the chambers till he heard 
some one snore. Then he would know that the 
day had not yet come, and return wearily to his 
bedroom. Later he learned not to stir till there 
was a noise and movement in the house and 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 283 


Mr. Bee ton advised him to get up. Once 
dressed — and dressing, now that Torpenhow 
was away, was a lengthy business, because col- 
lars, ties, and the like, hid themselves in far 
corners of the room, and search meant head- 
beating against chairs and trunks — once 
dressed, there was nothing whatever to do ex- 
cept to sit still and brood till the three daily 
meals came. Centuries separated breakfast 
from lunch and lunch from dinner, and though 
a man prayed for hundreds of years that his 
mind might be taken from him, God would 
never hear. Rather the mind was quickened 
and the revolving thoughts ground against 
each other as mill-stones grind when there is 
no corn between ; and yet the brain would not 
wear out and give him rest. It continued to 
think, at length, with imagery and all manner 
of reminiscences. It recalled Maisie and past 
success, reckless travels by land and sea, the 
glory of doing work and feeling that it was 
good, and suggested all that might have hap- 
pened had the eyes only been faithful to their 
duty. When thinking ceased through sheer 
weariness, there poured into Dick’s soul tide 
on tide of overwhelming, purposeless fear — 
dread of starvation always, terror lest the un- 
seen ceiling should crush down upon him, fear 


284 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


of fire in the chambers and a louse’s death in 
red flame, and agonies of fiercer horror that 
had nothing to do with any fear of death. Then 
Dick bowed his head, and clutching the arms 
of his chair fought with his sweating self till 
the tinkle of plates told him that something 
to eat was being set before him. 

Mr. Beeton would bring the meal when he 
had time to spare, and Dick learned to hang 
upon his speech which dealt with badly-fitted 
gas-plugs, waste-pipes out of repair, little 
tricks for driving picture-nails into walls, and 
the sins of the charwoman or the housemaids. 
In the lack of better things the small gossip 
of a servant’s hall becomes immensely inter- 
esting, and the screwing of a washer on a tap 
an event to be talked over for days. 

Once or twice a week, too, Mr. Beeton would 
take Dick out with him when he went mar- 
keting in the morning to haggle with trades- 
men over fish, lamp-wicks, mustard, tapioca, 
and so forth, while Dick rested his weight first 
on one foot and then on the other and played 
aimlessly with the tins and string-ball on the 
counter. Then they would perhaps meet one 
of Mr. Beeton’s friends, and Dick, standing 
aside a little, would hold his peace till Mr. 
Beeton was willing fo go on again. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 285 


The life did not increase his self-respect. He 
abandoned shaving as a dangerous exercise, 
and being shaved in a barber’s shop meant ex- 
posure of his infirmity. He could not see that 
his clothes were properly brushed, and since 
he had never taken any care of his personal ap- 
pearance he became every known variety of 
sloven. A blind man cannot eat with cleanli- 
ness till he has been some months used to the 
darkness. If he demand attendance and grow 
angry at the want of it, he must assert him- 
self and stand upright. Then the meanest 
menial can see that he is blind and, therefore, of 
no consequence. A wise man will keep his 
eyes on the floor and sit still. For amusement 
he may pick coal lump by lump out of the scut- 
tle with the tongs and pile it in a little heap 
in the fender, keeping count of the lumps, 
which must all be put back again, one by one 
and very carefully. He may set himself sums 
if he cares to work them out; he may talk to 
himself or to the cat if she chooses to visit 
him; and if his trade has been that of an art- 
ist, he may sketch in the air with his forefin- 
ger; but that is too much like drawing a pig 
with the eyes shut. He may go to his book- 
shelves and count his books, ranging them in 
order of their size; or to his wardrobe and 


286 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


count his shirts, laying them in piles of two or 
three on the bed, as they suffer from frayed 
cuffs or lost buttons. Even this entertainment 
wearies after a time; and all the times are 
very, very long. 

Dick was allowed to sort a tool-chest where 
Mr. Beeton kept hammers, taps and nuts, 
lengths of gas-pipes, oil-bottles and string. 

“If I don’t have everything just where I 
know where to look for it, why, then, I can’t 
find anything when I do want it. You’ve no 
idea, sir, the amount of little things that these 
chambers uses up,” said Mr. Beeton, fumb- 
ling at the handle of the door as he went out : 
“it’s hard on you, sir, I do think it’s hard on 
you. Ain’t you going to do anything, sir?” 

“I’ll pay my rent and messing. Isn’t that 
enough ?” 

“I wasn’t doubting for a moment that you 
couldn’t pay your way, sir; but I ’ave often 
said to my wife, ‘It’s ’ard on ’im because it isn’t 
as if he was an old man, nor yet a middle-aged 
one, but quite a young gentleman. That's 
where it comes so ’ard.’ ” 

“I suppose so,” said Dick, absently. This 
particular nerve through long battering had 
ceased to feel — much. 

“I was thinking,” continued Mr. Beeton, 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 287 


still making as if to go, “that you might like to 
hear my boy Alf read you the papers some- 
times of an evening. He do read beautiful, 
seeing he's only nine." 

“I should be very grateful," said Dick. “Only 
let me make it worth his while." 

“We wasn’t thinking of that, sir, but of 
course it’s in your own ’ands ; but only to ’ear 
Alf sing ‘A Boy’s best Friend is ’is Mother!’ 
Ah!" 

“I’ll hear him sing that too. Let him come 
in this evening with the newspapers." 

Alf was not a nice child, being puffed up 
with many school-board certificates for good 
conduct, and inordinately proud of his singing. 
Mr. Beeton remained, beaming, while the child 
wailed his way through a song of some eight- 
line verses in the usual whine of the young 
Cockney, and, after compliments, left him to 
read Dick the foreign telegrams. Ten minutes 
later Alf returned to his parents rather pale 
and scared. 

“’E said ’e couldn’t stand it no more," he 
explained. 

“He never said you read badly, Alf" Mrs. 
Beeton spoke. 

“No. ’E said I read beautiful. Said ’e nev- 
er ’eard any one read like that, but ’e said ’e 
couldn’t abide the stuff in the papers." 


288 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“P’raps he’s lost some money in the Stocks. 
Were you readin’ him about Stocks, Alf ?” 

“No; it was all about fightin’ out there 
where the soldiers is gone — a great long piece 
with all the lines close together and very hard 
words in it. ’E give me ’arf a crown because 
I read so well. And ’e says the next time 
there’s anything ’e wants read ’e’ll send for 
me.” 

“That’s good hearing, but I do think for all 
the half-crown — put it into the kicking-donkey 
money-box, Alf, and let me see you do it — he 
might have kept you longer. Why, he couldn’t 
have begun to understand how beautiful you 
read.” 

“He’s best left to hisself — gentlemen always 
are when they’re downhearted,” said Mr. Bee- 
ton. 

Alf’s rigorously limited powers of compre- 
hending Torpenhow’s special correspondence 
had waked the devil of unrest in Dick. He 
could hear, through the boy’s nasal chant, the 
camels grunting in the squares behind the sol- 
diers outside Suakin; could hear the men 
swearing and chaffing across the cooking pots, 
and could smell the acrid wood-smoke as it 
drifted over the camp before the wind of the 
desert. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 289 


That night he prayed to God that his mind 
might be taken from him, offering for proof 
that he was worthy of this favor the fact that 
he had not shot himself long ago. That prayer 
was not answered, and indeed Dick knew in 
his heart of hearts that only a lingering sense 
of humor and no special virtue had kept him 
alive. Suicide, he had persuaded himself, 
would be a ludicrous insult to the gravity of the 
situation as well as a weak-kneed confession 
of fear. 

"Just for the fun of the thing,” he said to 
the cat, who had taken Binkie’s place in his 
establishment, “I should like to know how long 
this is going to last. I can live for a year on 
the hundred pounds Torp cashed for me. I 
must have two or three thousand at least at 
the Bank — twenty or thirty years more pro- 
vided for, that is to say. Then I fall back on 
my hundred and twenty a year, which will be 
more by that time. Let’s consider. Twenty- 
five — thirty-five — a man’s in his prime then, 
they say — forty-five — a middle-aged man just 
entering politics — fifty-five — ‘died at the com- 
paratively early age of fifty-five,’ according to 
the newspapers. Bah ! How these Christians 
funk death ! Sixty-five — we’re only getting on 
in years. Seventy-five is just possible though. 


290 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


Great Hell, cat 0 ! fifty years more of solitary 
confinement in the dark! You’ll die, and Beet- 
on will die, and Torp will die, and Mai — every- 
body else will die, but I shall be alive and kick- 
ing with nothing to do. I’m very sorry for 
myself. I should like some one else to be sorry 
for me. Evidently I’m not going mad before 
I die, but the pain’s just as bad as ever. Some 
day when you’re vivisected, cat O! they’ll tie 
you down on a little table and cut you open 
— but don’t be afraid; they’ll take precious 
good care that you don’t die. You’ll live, and 
you’ll be very sorry then that you weren’t sorry 
for me. Perhaps Torp will come back or . . . 
I wish I could go to Torp and the Nilghai, 
even though I were in their wav.” 

Pussy left the room before the speech was 
ended, and Alf, as he entered, found Dick ad- 
dressing the empty hearth-rug. 

‘There’s a letter for you, sir,” he said. “Per- 
haps you’d like me to read it.” 

“Lend it to me for a minute and I’ll tell 
you.” 

The outstretched hand shook just a little and 
the voice was not over-steady. It was within 
the limits of human possibility that — that was 
no letter from Maisie. He knew the heft of 
three closed envelopes only too well. It was 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 291 


a foolish hope that the girl should write to 
him, for he did not realize that there is a wrong 
which admits of no reparation though the evil- 
doer may with tears and the heart’s best love 
strive to mend all. It is best to forget that 
wrong whether it be caused or endured, since 
it is as remediless as bad work once put for- 
ward. 

“Read it, then,” said Dick, and Alf began 
intoning according to the rules of the Board 
School — 

“I could have given you love , I could have 
given you loyalty , such as you never dreamed 
of. Do you suppose I cared what you were? 
But you choose to whistle everything down the 
wind for nothing. My only excuse for you is 
that you are so young.” 

“That’s all,” he said, returning the paper to 
be dropped into the fire. 

“What was in the letter ?” asked Mrs. Beeton 
when Alf returned. 

“I don’t know. I think it was a circular or 
a tract about not whistlin’ at everything when 
you’re young.” 

“I must have stepped on something when I 
was alive and walking about and it has bounced 
up and hit me. God help it, whatever it is — 
unless it was all a joke. But I don’t know any 


292 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


one who’d take the trouble to play a joke on 
me. . . . Love and loyalty for nothing. It 
sounds tempting enough. I wonder whether I 
have lost anything really?” 

Dick considered for a long time but could 
not remember when or how he had put himself 
in the way of winning these trifles at a woman's 
hands. 

Still, the letter as touching on matters that 
he preferred not to think about stung him into 
a bit of frenzy that lasted for a day and night. 
When his heart was so full of despair that it 
would hold no more, body and soul together 
seemed to be dropping without check through 
the darkness. Then came fear of darkness and 
desperate attempts to reach the light again. But 
there was no light to be reached. When that 
agony had left him sweating and breathless, 
the downward flight would recommence till 
the gathering torture of it spurred him into 
another fight as hopeless as the first. Followed 
some few minutes of sleep in which he dreamed 
that he saw. Then the procession of events 
would repeat itself till he was utterly worn out 
and the brain took up its everlasting consider- 
ation of Maisie and might-have-beens. 

At the end of everything Mr. Beeton came 
to his room and volunteered to take him out. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 293 


“Not marketing this time, but we’ll go into the 
Parks if you like.” 

“Be damned if I do,” quoth Dick. “Keep to 
the streets and walk up and down. I like to 
hear the people round me.” 

This was not altogether true. The blind in 
the first stages of their infirmity dislike those 
who can move with a free stride and uplifted 
arms — but Dick had no earthly desire to go to 
the Parks. Once and only once since Maisie 
had shut the door he had gone there under 
Alf’s charge. Alf forgot him and fished for 
minnows in the Serpentine with some compan- 
ions. After half an hour’s waiting Dick, al- 
most weeping with rage and wrath, caught a 
passer-by who introduced him to a friendly 
policeman, who led him to a four-wheeler op- 
posite the Albert Hall. He never told Mr. 
Beeton of Alf’s forgetfulness, but . . . this 
was not the manner in which he was used to 
walk the Parks aforetime. 

“What streets would you like to walk down, 
then?” said Mr. Beeton, sympathetically. His 
own ideas of a riotous holiday meant picnick- 
ing on the grass of the Green Park with his 
family, and half a dozen paper bags full of 
food. 

“Keep to the river,” said Dick, and they kept 


294 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


to the river, and the rush of it was in his ears 
till they came to Blackfriars Bridge and struck 
thence on to the Waterloo Road, Mr. Beeton 
explaining the beauties of the scenery as he 
went on. 

“And walking on the other side of the pave- 
ment, said he, “unless I’m much mistaken, is 
the young woman that used to come to your 
rooms to be drawed. I never forgets a face 
and I never remembers a name, except paying 
tenants, o’ course !” 

“Stop her,” said Dick. “It’s Bessie Broke. 
Tell her I’d like to speak to her again. Quick, 
man !” 

Mr. Beeton crossed the road under the noses 
of the omnibuses and arrested Bessie, then on 
her way northward. She recognized him as 
the man in authority who used to glare at her 
when she passed up Dick’s staircase, and her 
first impulse was to run. 

“Wasn’t you Mr. Heldar’s model?” said Mr. 
Beeton, planting himself in front of her. “You 
was. He’s on the other side of the road and 
he’d like to see you.” 

“Why?” said Bessie, faintly. She remem- 
bered — indeed had never for long forgotten — 
an affair connected with a newly-finished pic- 
ture. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 295 


“Because he has asked me to do so, and be- 
cause he’s most particular blind.” 

“Drunk ?” 

“No. ’Orspital blind. He can’t see. That’s 
him over there.” 

Dick was leaning against the parapet of the 
bridge as Mr. Beeton pointed him out — a stub- 
bearded, bowed creature wearing a dirty ma- 
genta colored neckcloth outside an unbrushed 
coat. There was nothing to fear from such 
an one. Even if he chased her, Bessie thought, 
he could not follow far. She crossed over and 
Dick’s face lighted up. It was long since a 
woman of any kind had taken the trouble to 
speak to him. 

“I hope you’re well, Mr. Heldar ?” said Bes- 
sie, a little puzzled. Mr. Beeton stood by with 
the air of an ambassador and breathed respon- 
sibly. 

“I’m very well indeed, and, by Jove! I’m 
glad to see — hear you, I mean, Bess. You 
never thought it worth while to turn up and see 
us again after you got your money. I don’t 
know why you should. Are you going any- 
where in particular just now?” 

“I was going for a walk,” said Bessie. 

“Not the old business?” Dick spoke under 
his breath. 


296 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“Lor, no! I paid my premium” — Bessie 
was very proud of that word — “for a barmaid, 
sleeping in, and I’m at the bar now quite re- 
spectable. Indeed I am.” 

Mr. Beeton had no special reason to believe 
in the loftiness of human nature. Therefore 
he dissolved himself like a mist and returned 
to his gas-plugs without a word of apology. 
Bessie watched the flight with a certain un- 
easiness; but so long as Dick appeared to be 
ignorant of the harm that had been done to 
him. . . . 

“It’s hard work pulling the beer-handles,” 
she went on, “and they’ve got one of them 
penny-in-the-slot cash-machines, so if you get 
wrong by a penny at the end of the day — but 
then I don’t believe the machinery is right. Do 
you?” 

“I’ve only seen it work. Mr. Beeton.” 

“He’s gone.” 

“I’m afraid I must ask you to help me home, 
then. I’ll make it worth your while. You 
see.” The sightless eyes turned toward her 
and Bessie saw. 

“It isn’t taking you out of your way?” he 
said, hesitating. “I can ask a policeman if it 
is.” 

“Not at all. I come on at seven and I’m off 
at four. That’s easy hours.” 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 297 


“Good God ! — but I’m on all the time. I 
wish I had some work to do too. Let’s go 
home, Bess.” 

He turned and cannoned into a man on the 
sidewalk, recoiling with an oath. Bessie took 
his arm and said nothing — as she had said 
nothing when he had ordered her to turn her 
face a little more to the light. They walked 
for some time in silence, the girl steering him 
deftly through the crowd. 

“And where’s — where’s Mr. Torpenhow?” 
she inquired at last. 

“He’s gone away to the desert.” 

“Where’s that?” 

Dick pointed to the right. “East — out of 
the mouth of the river,” said he. “Then west, 
then south, and then east again, all along the 
underside of Europe. Then south again, God 
knows how far.” The explanation did not 
enlighten Bessie in the least, but she held her 
tongue and looked to Dick’s path till they came 
to the chambers. 

“We’ll have tea and muffins,” he said, joy- 
ously. “I can’t tell you, Bessie, how glad I 
am to find you again. What made you go away 
so suddenly ?” 

“I didn’t think you’d want me any more,” 
she said, emboldened by his ignorance. 


298 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“I didn’t as a matter of fact — but afterward 
— At any rate I’m glad you’ve come. You 
know the stairs.” 

So Bessie led him home to his own place — 
there was no one to hinder — and shut the door 
of the studio. 

“What a mess!” was her first word. “All 
these things haven’t been looked after for 
months and months.” 

“No, only weeks, Bess. You can’t expect 
them to care.” 

“I don’t know what you expect them to do. 
They ought to know what you’ve paid them 
for. The dust’s just awful. It’s all over the 
easel.” 

“I don’t use it much now.” 

“All over the pictures and the floor, and all 
over your coat. I’d like to speak to them 
housemaids.” 

“Ring for tea, then.” Dick felt his way to 
the one chair he used by custom. 

Bessie saw the action and, as far as in her 
lay, was touched. But there remained always 
a keen sense of new-found superiority, and it 
was in her voice when she spoke. 

“How long have you been like this?” she 
said, wrathfully, as though the blindness were 
some fault of the housemaids. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 299 


“How?” 

“As you are.” 

“The day after you went away with the 
check, almost as soon as my picture was fin- 
ished; I hardly saw her alive.” 

“Then they’ve been cheating you ever since, 
that’s all. I know their nice little ways.” 

A woman may love one man and despise 
another, but on general feminine principles 
she will do her best to save the man she des- 
pises from being defrauded. Her loved one 
can look to himself, but the other man, being 
obviously an idiot, needs protection. 

“I don’t think Mr. Beeton cheats much,” 
said Dick. Bessie was flouncing up and down 
the room, and he was conscious of a keen sense 
of enjoyment as he heard the swish of her 
skirts and the light step between. 

“Tea and muffins,” she said, shortly, when 
the ring at the bell was answered; “two tea- 
spoonfuls and one over for the pot. I don’t 
want the old teapot that was here when I used 
to come. It don’t draw. Get another.” 

The housemaid went away scandalized, and 
Dick chuckled. Then he began to cough as 
Bessie banged up and down the studio disturb- 
ing the dust. 

“What are you trying to do?” 


3 oo THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“Put things straight. This is like unfur- 
nished lodgings. How could you let it go so ?” 

“How could I help it? Dust away.” 

She dusted furiously, and in the midst of all 
the pother entered Mrs. Beeton. Her husband 
on his return had explained the situation, 
winding up with the peculiarly felicitous prov- 
erb, “Do unto others as you would be done 
by.” She had descended to put into her place 
the person who demanded muffins and an un- 
cracked teapot as though she had a right to 
both. 

“Muffins ready yet?” said Bess, still dust- 
ing. She was no longer a drab of the streets 
but a young lady who, thanks to Dick’s check, 
had paid her premium and was entitled to pull 
beer-handles with the best. Being neatly 
dressed in black she did not hesitate to face 
Mrs. Beeton, and there passed between the two 
women certain regards that Dick would have 
appreciated. The situation adjusted itself by 
eye. Bessie had won, and Mrs. Beeton re- 
turned to cook muffins and make scathing re- 
marks about models, hussies, trollops, and the 
like, to her husband. 

“There’s nothing to be got of interfering 
with him, Liza,” he said. “Alf, you go along 
into the street to play. When he isn’t crossed 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 301 


he’s as kindly as kind, but when he’s crossed 
he’s the devil and all. We took too many little 
things out of his room since he was blind to 
be that particular about what he does. They 
ain’t no objects to a blind man, of course, but 
if it was to come into court we’d get the sack. 
Yes, I did introduce him to that girl because 
I’m a feelin’ man myself.” 

“Much too feelin’!” Mrs. Beeton slapped 
the muffins into the dish, and thought of come- 
ly housemaids long since dismissed on suspic- 
ion. 

“I ain’t ashamed of it, and it isn’t for us to 
judge him hard so long as he pays quiet and 
regular as he do. I know how r to manage 
young gentlemen, you know how to cook for 
them, and what I says is, let each stick to his 
own business and then there won’t be any trou- 
ble. Take them muffins down, Liza, and be 
sure you have no words with that young wom- 
an. His lot is cruel hard, and if he’s crossed 
he do swear worse than any one I’ve ever 
served.” 

“That’s a little better,” said Bessie, sitting 
down to the tea. “You needn’t wait, thank 
you, Mrs. Beeton.” 

“I had no intention of doing such, I do as- 
sure you.” 


302 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


Bessie made no answer whatever. This, 
she knew, was the way in which real ladies 
routed their foes, and when one is a barmaid 
at a first-class public house one may become 
a real lady at ten minutes’ notice. 

Her eyes fell on Dick opposite her and she 
was both shocked and displeased. There were 
droppings of food all down the front of his 
coat; the mouth under the ragged ill-grown 
beard drooped sullenly ; the forehead was lined 
and contracted; and on the lean temples the 
hair was a dusty indeterminate color that 
might or might not have been called grey. The 
utter misery and self-abandonment of the man 
appealed to her, and at the bottom of her heart 
lay the wicked feeling that he was humbled 
and brought low who had once humbled her. 

“Oh ! it is good to hear you moving about,” 
said Dick, rubbing his hands. “Tell us all 
about your bar successes, Bessie, and the way 
you live now. 

“Never mind that. I’m quite respectable, 
as you’d see by looking at me. You don’t seem 
to live too well. What made you go blind that 
sudden ? Why isn’t there any one to look after 
you?” 

Dick was too thankful for the sound of her 
voice to resent the tone of it. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 303 


“I was cut across the head a long time ago, 
and that ruined my eyes. I don’t suppose any- 
body thinks it worth while to look after me 
any more. Why should they ? — and Mr. Beet- 
on really does everything I want. ” 

“Didn’t you know any gentlemen and ladies, 
then, while you was — well ?” 

“A few, but I don’t care to have them look- 
ing at me.” 

“I suppose that’s why you’ve growed a beard 
Take it off, it don’t become you.” 

“Good gracious, child, do you imagine that 
I think of what becomes me these days ?” 

“You ought. Get that taken off before I 
come here again. I suppose I can come, can’t 
I?” 

“I’d be only too grateful if you did. I don’t 
think I treated you very well in the old days. 
I used to make your angry.” 

“Very angry, you did.” 

“I’m sorry for it, then. Come and see me 
when you can and as often as you can. God 
knows, there isn’t a soul in the world to take 
that trouble except you and Mr. Beeton.” 

“A lot of trouble he's taking and she too.” 
This with a toss of the head. “They’ve let you 
do anyhow and they haven’t done anything for 
you. I’ve only to look to see that much. I’ll 


304 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


come, and I’ll be glad to come, but you must 
go and be shaved, and you must get some other 
clothes — those ones aren’t fit to be seen.” 

“I have heaps somewhere,” he said, help- 
lessly. 

“I know you have. Tell Mr. Beeton to give 
you a new suit and I’ll brush it and keep it 
clean. You may be as blind as a barn-door, 
Mr. Heldar, but it doesn’t excuse you looking 
like a sweep.” 

“Do I look like a sweep, then?” 

“Oh, I’m sorry for you. I’m that sorry for 
you!” she cried, impulsively, and took Dick’s 
hands. Mechanically, he lowered his head as 
if to kiss — she was the only woman who had 
taken pity on him, and he was not too proud 
for a little pity now. She stood up to go. 

“Nothing o’ that kind till you look more like 
a gentleman. It’s quite easy when you get 
shaved and some clothes.” 

He could hear her drawing on her gloves 
and rose to say good-bye. She passed behind 
him, kissed him audaciously on the back of 
the neck, and ran away as swiftly as on the 
day when she had destroyed the Melancolia. 

“To think of me kissing Mr. Heldar,” she 
said to herself, “after all he’s done to me and 
all! Well, I’m sorry for him, and if he was 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 305 


shaved he wouldn’t be so bad to look at, but 
. . . Oh them Beetons, how shameful they’ve 
treated him! I know Beeton’s wearing his 
shirt on his back to-day just as well as if I 
aired it. To-morrow, I’ll see ... I wonder if 
he has much of his own. It might be worth 
more than the bar — I wouldn’t have to do any 
work — and just as respectable if no one knew.” 

Dick was not grateful to Bessie for her part- 
ing gift. He was acutely conscious of it in 
the nape of his neck throughout the night, but 
it seemed, among very many other things, to 
enforce the wisdom of getting shaved. He was 
shaved accordingly in the morning, and felt 
the better for it. A fresh suit of clothes, white 
linen, and the knowledge that some one in the 
world said that she took an interest in his per- 
sonal appearance, made him carry himself al- 
most upright; for the brain was relieved for 
a while from thinking of Maisie, who, under 
other circumstances, might have given that kiss 
and a million others. 

“Let us consider,” said he after lunch. “The 
girl can’t care, and it’s a toss-up whether she 
comes again or not, but if money can buy her 
to look after me she shall be bought. Nobody 
else in the world would take the trouble, and 
I can make it worth her while. She’s a child 


306 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


of the gutter holding brevet rank as a barmaid ; 
so she shall have everything she wants if she’ll 
only come and talk and look after me.” He 
rubbed his new-shorn chin and began to per- 
plex himself with the thought of her not com- 
ing. “I suppose I did look rather a sweep,” he 
went on. “I had no reason to look otherwise. 
I knew things dropped on my clothes, but it 
didn’t matter. It would be cruel if she didn’t 
come. She must. Maisie came once, and that 
was enough for her. She was quite right. She 
had something to work for. This creature has 
only beer-handles to pull, unless she has de- 
luded some young man into keeping company 
with her. Fancy being cheated for the sake of 
a counter-jumper! We’re falling pretty low.” 

Something cried aloud within him: — This 
will hurt more than anything that has gone 
before. It will recall and remind and suggest 
and tantalize, and in the end drive you mad. 

“I know it, I know it!” Dick cried, clench- 
ing his hands despairingly ; “but, good heavens ! 
Is a poor blind beggar never to get anything 
out of his life except three meals a day and 
a greasy waistcoat? I wish she’d come.” 

Early in the afternoon time she came, be- 
cause there was no young man in her life just 
then, and she thought of material advantages 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 307 


which would allow her to be idle for the rest 
of her days. 

“I shouldn’t have known you,” she said, ap- 
provingly. “You look as you used to look — 
a gentleman that was proud of himself.” 

“Don’t you think I deserve another kiss 
then?” said Dick, flushing a little. 

“Maybe — but you won’t get it yet. Sit 
down and let’s see what I can do for you. I’m 
certain sure Mr. Beeton cheats you, now that 
you can’t go through the housekeeping books 
every month. Isn’t that true?” 

“You’d better come and housekeep for me 
then, Bessie.” 

“’Couldn’t do it in these chambers — you 
know that as well as I do.” 

“I know, but we might go somewhere else, 
if you thought it worth your while.” 

“I’d try to look after you, anyhow; but I 
shouldn’t care to have to work for both of us.” 
This was tentative. 

Dick laughed. 

“Do you remember where I used to keep my 
bank-book?” said he. “Torp took it to be bal- 
anced just before he went away. Look and 
see.” 

“It was generally under the tobacco- jar. 
Ah!” 


308 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“Well?” 

“Oh ! Four thousand two hundred and ten 
pounds nine shillings and a penny ! Oh my !” 

“You can have the penny. That’s not bad 
for one year’s work. Is that and a hundred 
and twenty pounds a year good enough ?” 

The idleness and the pretty clothes were 
almost within her reach now, but she must, by 
being housewifely, show that she deserved 
them. 

“Yes; but you’d have to move, and if we 
took an inventory, I think we’d find that Mr. 
Beeton has been prigging little things out of 
the rooms here and there. They don’t look as 
full as they used.” 

“Never mind, we’ll let him have them. The 
only thing I’m particularly anxious to take 
away is that picture I used you for — when 
you used to swear at me. We’ll pull out of 
this place, Bess, and get away as far as ever 
we can.” 

“Oh yes,” she said, uneasily. 

“I don’t know where I can go to get away 
from myself, but I’ll try, and you shall have 
all the pretty frocks that you care for. You’ll 
like that. Give me that kiss now, Bess. Ye 
gods ! it’s good to put one’s arm round a wom- 
an’s waist again.” 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 309 


Then came the fulfilment of the prophecy 
within the brain. If his arm were thus round 
Maisie’s waist and a kiss had just been given 
and taken between them, — why then. . . . He 
pressed the girl more closely to himself be- 
cause the pain whipped him. She was wonder- 
ing how to explain a little accident to the Mel- 
ancolia. At any rate, if this man really de- 
sired the solace of her company — and certain- 
ly he would relapse into his original slough if 
she withdrew it — he would not be more than 
just a little vexed. It would be delightful at 
least to see what would happen, and by her 
teachings it was good for a man to stand in 
certain awe of his companion. 

She laughed nervously, and slipped out of 
his reach. 

“I shouldn’t worrit about that picture if I 
was you,” she began, in the hope of turning 
his attention. 

"It’s at the back of all my canvases some- 
where. Find it, Bess; you know it as well as 
I do.” 

“I know — but” — 

“But what? You’ve wit enough to manage 
the sale of it to a dealer. Women haggle much 
better than men. It might be a matter of eight 
or nine hundred pounds to — to us. I simply 


3 io THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


didn’t like to think about it for a long time. 
It was mixed up with my life so. — But we’ll 
cover up our tracks and get rid of everything, 
eh? Make a fresh start from the beginning, 
Bess.” 

Then she began to repent very much in- 
deed, because she knew the value of money. 
Still, it was probable that the blind man was 
overestimating the value of his work. Gen- 
tlemen, she knew, were absurdly particular 
about their things. She giggled as a nervous 
housemaid giggles when she tries to explain 
the breakage of a pipe. 

“I’m very sorry, but you remember I was 
— I was angry with you before Mr. Torpenhow 
went away ?” 

“You were very angry, child; and on my 
word I think you had some right to be.” 

“Then I — but aren’t you sure Mr. Torpen- 
how didn’t tell you?” 

“Tell me what? Good gracious, what are 
you making such a fuss about when you might 
just as well be giving me another kiss.” 

He was beginning to learn, not for the first 
time in his experience, that kissing is a cumu- 
lative poison. The more you get of it, the 
more you want. Bessie gave the kiss promptly, 
whispering, as she did so, “I was so angry I 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 31 1 


rubbed out that picture with the turpentine. 
You aren’t angry, are you?” 

“What ? Say that again.” The man’s hand 
had closed on her wrist. 

“I rubbed it out with turps and the knife,” 
faltered Bessie. “I thought you’d only have 
to do it over again. You did do it over again, 
didn’t you? Oh, let go of my wrist; you’re 
hurting me.” 

“Isn’t there anything left of the thing?” 

“N’nothing that looks like anything. I’m 
sorry — I didn’t know you’d take on about it; 
I only meant to do it in fun. You aren’t 
going to hit me?” 

“Hit you! No! Let’s think.” 

He did not relax his hold upon her wrist but 
stood staring at the carpet. Then he shook 
his head as a young steer shakes it when the 
lash of the stock-whip across his nose warns 
him back to the path to the shambles that he 
would escape. For weeks he had forced him- 
self not to think of the Melancolia, because she 
was a part of his dead life. With Bessie’s re- 
turn and certain new prospects that had devel- 
oped themselves, the Melancolia — lovelier in 
his imagination than she had ever been on can- 
vas — reappeared. By her aid he might have 
procured more money wherewith to amuse 


312 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


Bess and to forget Maisie, as well as another 
taste of an almost forgotten success. Now, 
thanks to a vicious little housemaid’s folly, 
there was nothing to look for — not even the 
hope that he might some day take an abiding 
interest in the housemaid. Worst of all, he 
had been made to appear ridiculous in Maisie’s 
eyes. A woman will forgive the man who has 
ruined her life’s work so long as he gives her 
love: a man may forgive those who ruin the 
love of his life, but he will never forgive the 
destruction of his work. 

“Tck — tck — tck,” said Dick, between his 
teeth, and then laughed softly. “It’s an omen, 
Bessie, and — a good many things considered, it 
serves me right for doing what I have done. 
By Jove! that accounts for Maisie’s running 
away. She must have thought me perfectly mad 
— small blame to her! The whole picture 
ruined, isn’t it so? What made you do it?” 

“Because I was that angry. I’m not angry 
now — I’m awful sorry.” 

“I wonder. — It doesn’t matter, anyhow. I’m 
to blame for making the mistake.” 

“What mistake?” 

“Something you wouldn’t understand, dear. 
Great heavens! to think that a little piece of 
dirt like you could throw me out of my stride !” 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 313 


Dick was talking to himself as Bessie tried to 
shake off his grip on her wrist. 

“I ain’t a piece of dirt, and you shouldn’t call 
me so! I did it ’cause I hated you, and I’m 
only sorry now ’cause you’re — ’cause you’re” — 

“Exactly — because I’m blind. There’s noth- 
ing like tact in little things.” 

Bessie began to sob. She did not like be- 
ing shackled against her will; she was afraid 
of the blind face and the look upon it, and was 
sorry too that her great revenge had only made 
Dick laugh. 

“Don’t Cry,” he said, and took her into his 
arms. “You only did what you thought right.” 

“I — I ain’t a little piece of dirt, and if you 
say that I’ll never come to you again.” 

“You don’t know what you’ve done to me. 
I’m not angry — indeed, I’m not. Be quiet for 
a minute.” 

Bessie remained in his arms shrinking. 
Dick’s first thought was connected with Maisie, 
and it hurt him as white-hot iron hurts an open 
sore. 

Not for nothing is a man permitted to ally 
himself to the wrong woman. The first pang 
— the first sense of things lost is but the prel- 
ude to the play, for the very just Providence 
who delights in causing pain has decreed that 


314 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


the agony shall return, and that in the midst 
of keenest pleasure. They know this pain 
equally who have forsaken or been forsaken by 
the love of their life, and in their new wives’ 
arms are compelled to realize it. It is better 
to remain alone and suffer only the misery of 
being alone, so long as it is possible to find dis- 
traction in daily work. When that resource 
goes the man is to be pitied and left alone. 

These things and some others Dick consid- 
ered while he was holding Bessie to his heart. 

“Though you mayn’t know it,” he said, rais- 
ing his head, “the Lord is a just and a terrible 
God, Bess ; with a very strong sense of humor. 
It serves me right — how it serves me right! 
Torp could understand it if he were here; he 
must have suffered something at your hands, 
child, but only for a minute or so. I saved 
him. Set that to my credit, some one.” 

“Let me go,” said Bess, her face darken- 
ing. “Let me go.” 

“All in good time. Did you ever attend 
Sunday-school ?” 

“Never. Let me go, I tell you ; you’re mak- 
ing fun of me.” 

“Indeed, I’m not. I’m making fun of my- 
self. . . . Thus. ‘He saved others, himself 
he cannot save.’ It isn’t exactly a school-board 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 315 

text. He released her wrist, but since he 
was between her and the door, she could not 
escape. “What an enormous amount of mis- 
chief one little woman can do!” 

“I’m sorry; I’m awful sorry about the pic- 
ture.” 

“I’m not. I’m grateful to you for spoiling 
it. . . . What were we talking about before 
you mentioned the thing?” 

“About getting away — and money. Me and 
you going away.” 

“Of course. We will get away — that is to 
say, I will.” 

“And me?” 

“You shall have fifty whole pounds for 
spoiling a picture.” 

“Then you won’t?” — 

“I’m afraid not, dear. Think of fifty pounds 
for pretty things all to yourself.” 

“You said you couldn’t do anything without 
me. 

“That was true a little while ago. I’m bet- 
ter now, thank you. Get me my hat.” 

“S’pose I don’t?” 

“Beeton will and you’ll lose fifty pounds. 
That’s all. Get it.” 

Bessie cursed under her breath. She had 
pitied the man sincerely, had kissed him with 


316 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


almost equal sincerity, for he was not unhand- 
some; it pleased her to be in a way and for 
a time his protector, and above all there were 
four thousand pounds to be handled by some 
one. Now through a slip of the tongue and a 
little feminine desire to give a little, not too 
much, pain she had lost the money, the blessed 
idleness and the pretty things, the companion- 
ship, and the chance of looking outwardly as 
respectable as a real lady. 

“Now fill me a pipe. Tobacco doesn’t taste, 
but it doesn’t matter, and I’ll think things out 
What’s the day of the week, Bess?” 

“Tuesday.” 

“Then Thursday’s mail-day. What a fool 
— what a blind fool I have been! Twenty-two 
pounds covers my passage home again. Allow 
ten for additional expenses. We must put up 
at Madame Binat’s for old sake’s sake. Thir- 
ty-two pounds altogether. Add a hundred for 
the cost of the last trip — Gad, won’t Torp 
stare to see me! — a hundred and thirty-two 
leaves seventy-eight for baksheesh — I shall 
need it — and to play with. What are you cry- 
ing for, Bess? It wasn’t your fault, child; it 
was mine altogether. Oh, you funny little 
opossum, mop your eyes and take me out! I 
want the pass-book and the check-book. Stop 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 317 

a minute. Four thousand pounds at four per 
cent. — that’s safe interest — means a hundred 
and sixty pounds a year; one hundred and 
twenty pounds a year — also safe — is two 
eighty pounds added to three hundred a year 
means gilded luxury for a single woman. 
Bess, we’ll go to the bank.” 

Richer by two hundred and ten pounds 
stored in his money belt, Dick caused Bessie, 
now thoroughly bewildered, to hurry from the 
bank to the P. and O. offices, where he ex- 
plained things tersely. 

“Port Said, single first ; cabin as close to the 
baggage-hatch as possible. What ship’s go- 
ing?” 

“The Colgong,” said the clerk. 

“She’s a wet little hooker. Is it Tilbury and 
a tender, or Galleons and the docks?” 

“Galleons. Twelve-forty, Thursday.” 

“Thanks. Change, please. I can’t see very 
well — will you count it into my hand?” 

“If they all took their passages like that in- 
stead of talking about their trunks, life would 
be worth something,” said the clerk to his 
neighbor, who was trying to explain to a har- 
assed mother of many that condensed milk is 
just as good for babies at sea as daily dairy. 
Being nineteen and unmarried, he spoke with 
conviction. 


318 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“We are now,” quoth Dick, as they returned 
to the studio, patting the place where his 
money-belt covered ticket and money, “beyond 
the reach of man, or devil, or woman — which 
is much more important. I’ve three little af- 
fairs to carry through before Thursday, but 
I needn’t ask you to help, Bess. Come here on 
Thursday morning at nine. We’ll breakfast, 
and you shall take me down to Galleons Sta- 
tion.” 

“What are you going to do?” 

“Going away of course. What should I 
stay for?” 

“But you can’t look after yourself?” 

“I can do anything. I didn’t realize it be- 
fore, but I can. I’ve done a great deal already. 
Resolution shall be treated to one kiss if Bes- 
sie doesn’t object.” Strangely enough, Bes- 
sie objected, and Dick laughed. “I suppose 
you’re right. Well, come at nine the day after 
to-morrow and you’ll get your money.” 

“Shall I sure?” 

“I don’t bilk, and you won’t know whether 
I do or not unless you come. Oh, but it’s long 
and long to wait! Good-bye, Bessie, — send 
Beeton here as you go out.” 

The housekeeper came. 

“What are all the fittings of my rooms 
worth?” said Dick, imperiously. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 319 


“ ’Tisn’t for me to say, sir. Some things is 
very pretty and some is wore out dreadful.” 

“I’m insured for two hundred and seventy.” 

“Insurance policies is no criterion, though I 
don’t say” — 

“Oh, damn your longwindedness ! You’ve 
made your pickings out of me and the other 
tenants. Why, you talked of retiring and buy- 
ing a public-house the other day. Give a 
straight answer to a straight question.” 

“Fifty,” said Mr. Beeton, without a mo- 
ment’s hesitation. 

“Double it; or I’ll break up half my sticks 
and burn the rest.” 

He felt his way to a bookstand that sup- 
ported a pile of sketch-books, and wrenched 
out one of the mahogany pillars. 

“That’s sinful, sir,” said the housekeeper, 
alarmed. 

“It’s my own. One hundred or” — 

“One hundred it is. It’ll cost me three and 
six to get that there pilaster mended.” 

“I thought so. What an out and out swind- 
ler you must have been to spring that price at 
once !” 

“I hope I’ve done nothing to dissatisfy any 
of the tenants, least of all you, sir.” 

“Never mind that. Get me the money to- 


320 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


morrow, and see that all my clothes are packed 
in the little brown bullock-trunk. I’m going.” 

“But the quarter’s notice?” 

‘Til pay forfeit. Look after the packing 
and leave me alone.” 

Mr. Beeton discussed this new departure 
with his wife, who decided that Bessie was 
at the bottom of it all. Her husband took a 
more charitable view. 

“It’s very sudden — but then he was always 
sudden in his ways. Listen to him now!” 

There was a sound of chanting from Dick’s 
room. 

‘‘We’ll never come back any more, boys. 

We’ll never come back no more; 

We’ll go to the deuce on any excuse, 

And never come back no more! 

Oh say we’re afloat or ashore, boys, 

Oh say we’re afloat or ashore; 

But we’ll never come back any more, boys, 

We’ll never come back no more!” 

“Mr. Beeton! Mr. Beeton! Where the 
deuce is my pistol?” 

“Quick, he’s going to shoot himself — ’avin’ 
gone mad!” said Mrs. Beeton. 

Mr. Beeton addressed Dick soothingly, but 
it was some time before the latter, threshing 
up and down his bedroom, could realize the in- 
tention of the promises to “find everything to- 
morrow, sir.” 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 321 


“Oh, you copper-nosed old fool — you im- 
potent Academician !” he shouted at last. “Do 
you suppose I want to shoot myself? Take the 
pistol in your silly shaking hand then. If you 
touch it, it will go off, because it’s loaded. It’s 
among my campaign-kit somewhere — in the 
parcel at the bottom of the trunk.” 

Long ago Dick had carefully possessed him- 
self of a forty-pound weight field-equipment 
constructed by the knowledge of his own expe- 
rience. It was this put-away treasure that he 
was trying to find and rehandle. Mr. Beeton 
whipped the revolver out of its place on the top 
of the package, and Dick drove his hand 
among the khaki coat and breeches, the blue 
cloth leg-bands, and the heavy . flannel shirts 
doubled over a pair of swan-neck spurs. Under 
these and the water-bottle lay a sketch-book 
and a pigskin case of stationery. 

“These we don’t want; you can have them, 
Mr. Beeton. Everything else I’ll keep. Pack 
’em on the top right-hand side of my trunk. 
When you’ve done that come into the studio 
with your wife. I want you both. Wait a 
minute ; get me a pen and a sheet of notepaper.” 

It is not an easy thing to write when you 
cannot see, and Dick had particular reasons 
for wishing that his work should be clear. So 


322 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


he began, following his right hand with his 
left. “ ‘The badness of this writing is because 
I am blind and cannot see my pen.’ H’mph ! — 
Even a lawyer can’t mistake that. It must be 
signed, I suppose, but it needn’t be witnessed. 
Now an inch lower — why did I never learn to 
use a typewriter? — ‘This is the last will and 
testament of me, Richard Heldar. I am in 
sound bodily and mental health, and there is no 
previous will to revoke.’ — That’s all right. 
Damn the pen ! Whereabouts on the paper was 
I? — ‘I leave everything that I possess in the 
world, including four thousand pounds, and 
two thousand seven hundred and twenty-eight 
pounds held for me’ — Oh, I can’t get this 
straight.” He tore off half the sheet and began 
again with the caution about the handwriting. 
Then: “I leave all the money I possess in the 
world to” — here followed Maisie’s name, and 
the names of the two banks that held his money. 

“It mayn’t be quite regular, but no one has 
a shadow of a right to dispute it, and I’ve given 
Maisie’s address. Come in, Mr. Beeton. This 
is my signature ; you’ve seen it often enough to 
know it ; I want you and your wife to witness 
it. Thanks. To-morrow you must take me to 
the landlord, and I’ll pay forfeit for leaving 
without notice, and I’ll lodge this paper with 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 323 


him in case anything happens when I’m away. 
Now we’re going to light up the studio stove. 
Stay with me, and give me my papers as I want 
’em.” 

No one knows until he has tried how fine a 
blaze a year’s accumulation of bills, letters, and 
dockets can make. Dick stuffed into the stove 
every document in the studio — saving only 
three unopened letters : destroyed sketch-books, 
rough note-books, new and half-finished can- 
vases alike. 

“What a lot of rubbish a tenant gets about 
him if he stays long enough in one place, to be 
sure,” said Mr. Beeton at last. 

“He does. Is there anything more left?” 
Dick felt round the walls. 

“Not a thing, and the stove’s nigh red-hot.” 

“Excellent, and you’ve lost about a thousand 
pounds’ worth of sketches. Ho ! ho ! Quite a 
thousand pounds’ worth, if I can remember 
what I used to be.” 

“Yes, sir,” politely. Mr. Beeton was quite 
sure that Dick had gone mad, otherwise he 
would have never parted with his excellent fur- 
niture for a song. The canvas things took up 
storage room and were much better out of the 
way. 

There remained only to leave the little will 


324 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


in safe hands : that could not be accomplished 
till to-morrow. Dick groped about the floor 
picking up the last pieces of paper, assured 
himself again and again that there remained 
no written word or sign of his past life in 
drawer or desk, and sat down before the stove 
till the fire died out and the contracting iron 
cracked in the silence of the night. 


CHAPTER XV 


With a heart of furious fancies, 

Whereof I am commander; 

With a burning spear and a horse of air, 

To the wilderness I wander. 

With a knight of ghosts and shadows 
I summoned am to tourney — 

Ten leagues beyond the wide world’s end, 
Methinks it is no journey. 

— Tom a ’ Bedlam’s Song. 


“Good-bye, Bess ; I promised you fifty. 
Here’s a hundred — all that I got for my furni- 
ture from Beeton. That will keep you in pret- 
ty frocks for some time. You’ve been a good 
little girl, all things considered, but you’ve 
given me and Torpenhow a fair amount of 
trouble.” 

“Give Mr. Torpenhow my love if you see 
him, won’t you ?” 

“Of course I will, dear. Now take me up the 
gang-plank and into the cabin. Once aboard 
the lugger and the maid is — and I am free, I 
mean.” 

“Who’ll look after you on the ship?” 

“The head-steward, if there’s any 
325 


use in 


326 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


money. The doctor when we come to Port 
Said, if I know anything of P. and O. doctors. 
After that, the Lord will provide, as He used 
to do.” 

Bess found Dick his cabin in the wild tur- 
moil of a ship full of leavetakers and weeping 
relatives. Then he kissed her, and laid himself 
down in his bunk until the decks should be 
clear. He who had taken so long to move about 
his own darkened rooms well understood the 
geography of a ship, and the necessity of see^- 
ing to his own comforts was as wine to him. 
Before the screw began to thrash the ship 
along the Docks he had been introduced to the 
head-steward, had royally tipped him, secured 
a good place at table, opened out his baggage, 
and settled himself down with joy in the cabin. 
It was scarcely necessary to feel his way as he 
moved about, for he knew everything so well. 
Then God was very kind : a deep sleep of weari- 
ness came upon him just as he would have 
thought of Maisie, and he slept till the steamer 
had cleared the mouth of the Thames and was 
lifting to the pulse of the Channel. 

The rattle of the engines, the reek of oil and 
paint, and a very familiar sound in the next 
cabin roused him to his new inheritance. 

“Oh, it’s good to be alive again!” He 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 327 


yawned, stretched himself vigorously, and went 
on deck to be told that they were almost abreast 
of the lights of Brighton. This is no more open 
water than Trafalgar Square is a common; the 
free levels begin at Ushant; but none the less 
Dick could feel the healing of the sea at work 
upon him already. A boisterous little cross- 
swell swung the steamer disrespectfully by the 
nose; and one wave breaking far aft spattered 
the quarterdeck and the pile of new deck chairs. 
He heard the foam fall with the clash of bro- 
ken glass, was stung in the face by a cupful, 
and sniffing luxuriously, felt his way to the 
smoking-room by the wheel. There a strong 
breeze found him, blew his cap off and left him 
bareheaded in the doorway, and the smoking- 
room steward, understanding that he was a 
voyager of experience, said that the weather 
would be stiff in the chops off the Channel and 
more than half a gale in the Bay. These 
things fell as they were foretold, and Dick en- 
joyed himself to the utmost. It is allowable 
and even necessary at sea to lay firm hold upon 
tables, stanchions, and ropes in moving from 
place to place. On land the man who feels with 
his hands is patently blind. At sea even a blind 
man who is not seasick can jest with the doc- 
tor over the weakness of his fellows. Dick 


328 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


told the doctor many tales — and these are coin 
of more value than silver if properly handled — 
smoked with him till unholy hours of the night, 
and so won his shortlived regard that he prom- 
ised Dick a few hours of his time when they 
came to Port Said. 

And the sea roared or was still as the winds 
blew, and the engines sang their song day and 
night, and the sun grew stronger day by day, 
and Tom the Lascar barber shaved Dick of a 
morning under the opened hatch-grating where 
the cool winds blew, and the awnings were 
spread and the passengers made merry, and at 
last they came to Port Said. 

“Take me,” said Dick to the doctor, “to 
Madame Binat’s — if you know where that is.” 

“Whew!” said the doctor, “I do. There’s 
not much to choose between ’em ; but I suppose 
you’re aware that that’s one of the worst 
houses in the place. They’ll rob you to begin 
with, and knife you later.” 

“Not they. Take me there, and I can look 
after myself.” 

So he was brought to Madame Binat’s and 
filled his nostrils with the well-remembered 
smell of the East, that runs without a change 
from the Canal head to Hong-Kong, and his 
mouth with the villainous Lingua Franca of 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 329 


the Levant. The heat smote him between the 
shoulder-blades with the buffet of an old friend, 
his feet slipped on the sand, and his coat-sleeve 
was warm as new-baked bread when he lifted it 
to his nose. 

Madame Binat smiled with the smile that 
knows no astonishment when Dick entered the 
drinking-shop which was one source of her 
gains. But for a little accident of complete 
darkness he could hardly realize that he had 
ever quitted the old life that hummed in his 
ears. Somebody opened a bottle of peculiarly 
strong Schiedam. The smell reminded Dick 
of Monsieur Binat, who, by the way, had spo- 
ken of art and degradation. Binat was dead; 
Madame said as much when the doctor de- 
parted, scandalized, so far as a ship’s doctor 
can be, at the warmth of Dick’s reception. 
Dick was delighted at it. “They remember me 
here after a year. They have forgotten me 
across the water by this time. Madame, I want 
a long talk with you when you’re at liberty. 
It is good to be back again.” 

In the evening she set an iron-topped cafe- 
table out on the sands, and Dick and she sat 
by it, while the house behind them filled with 
riot, merriment, oaths, and threats. The stars 
came out and the lights of the shipping in the 
harbor twinkled by the head of the Canal. 


330 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“Yes. The war is good for trade, my friend; 
but what dost thou do here? We have not for- 
gotten thee.” 

“I was over there in England and I went 
blind.” 

“But there was the glory first. We heard of 
it here, even here — I and Binat ; and thou hast 
used the head of Yellow ’Tina — she is still alive 
— so often and so well that ’Tina laughed when 
the papers arrived by the mail-boats. It was 
always something that we here could recognize 
in the paintings. And then there was always 
the glory and the money for thee.” 

“I am not poor — I shall pay you well.” 

“Not to me. Thou hast paid for everything.” 
Under her breath, “Mon Dieu, to be blind and 
so young ! What horror !” 

Dick could not see her face with the pity on 
it, or his own with the discolored hair at the 
temples. He did not feel the need of pity; he 
was too anxious to get to the front once more, 
and explained his desire. 

“And where ? The Canal is full of the Eng- 
lish ships. Sometimes they fire as they used to 
do when the war was here — ten years ago. Be- 
yond Cairo there is fighting, but how canst 
thou go there without a correspondent’s pass- 
port? And in the desert there is always fight- 
ing, but that is impossible also,” said she. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 331 


“I must go to Suakin.” He knew, thanks to 
Alf’s readings, that Torpenhow was at work 
with the column that was protecting the con- 
struction of the Suakin-Berber line. P. and O. 
steamers do not touch at that port, and, besides, 
Madame Binat knew everybody whose help or 
advice was worth anything. They were not re- 
spectable folk, but they could cause things to 
be accomplished, which is much more import- 
ant when there is work toward. 

“But at Suakin they are always fighting. 
That desert breeds men always — and always 
more men. And they are so bold! Why to 
Suakin?” 

“My friend is there.” 

“Thy friend! Chtt! Thy friend is death, 
then.” 

Madame Binat dropped a fat arm on the ta- 
ble-top, filled Dick’s glass anew, and looked at 
him closely under the stars. . There was no 
need that he should bow his head in assent and 
say — 

“No. He is a man, but — if it should arrive 
. . . blamest thou ?” 

“I blame?” she laughed, shrilly. “Who am 
I that I should blame any one — except those 
who try to cheat me over their consommations. 
But it is very terrible.” 


332 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“I must go to Suakin. Think for me. A 
great deal has changed within the year, and 
the men I knew are not here. The Egyptian 
light-house steamer goes down the Canal 
to Suakin — and the post-boats — But even 
then” — 

“Do not think any longer. I know, and it is 
for me to think. Thou shalt go — thou shalt 
go and see thy friend. Be wise. Sit here until 
the house is a little quiet — I must attend to my 
guests — and afterwards go to bed. Thou shalt 
go, in truth, thou shalt go.” 

“To-morrow?” 

“As soon as may be.” She was talking as 
though he were a child. 

He sat at the table listening to the voices in 
the harbor and the streets, and wondering how 
soon the end would come, till Madame Binat 
carried him off to bed and ordered him to sleep. 
The house shouted and sang and danced and 
reveled, Madame Binat moving through it with 
one eye on the liquor payments and the girls 
and the other on Dick’s interests. To this lat- 
ter end she smiled upon scowling and furtive 
Turkish officers of fellaheen regiments, was 
gracious to Cypriote commissariat underlings, 
and more than kind to camel agents of no na- 
tionality whatever. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 333 


In the early morning, being then appropri- 
ately dressed in the flaming red silk ball-dress, 
with a front of tarnished gold embroidery and 
a necklace of plate-glass diamonds, she made 
chocolate and carried it in to Dick. 

“It is only I, and I am of discreet age, eh? 
Drink and eat the roll too. Thus in France 
mothers bring their sons, when those behave 
wisely, the morning chocolate.” She sat down 
on the side of the bed whispering : 

“It is all arranged. Thou wilt go by the 
light-house boat. That is a bribe of ten pounds 
English. The captain is never paid by the Gov- 
ernment. The boat comes to Suakin in four 
days. There will go with thee George, a Greek 
muleteer. Another bribe of ten pounds. I will 
pay, they must not know of thy money. George 
will go with thee as far as he goes with his 
mules. Then he comes back to me, for his well- 
beloved is here, and if I do not receive a tele- 
gram from Suakin saying that thou art well, 
the girl answers for George.” 

“Thank you.” He reached out sleepily for 
the cup. “You are much too kind, Madame.” 

“If there were anything that I might do I 
would say, stay here and be wise ; but I do not 
think that would be best for thee.” She looked 
at her liquor-stained dress with a sad smile. 


334 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“Nay, thou shalt go, in truth, thou shalt go. It 
is best so. My boy, it is best so.” 

She stooped and kissed Dick between the 
eyes. 

“That is for good-morning,” she said, going 
away. “When thou art dressed we will speak 
to George and make everything ready. But 
first we must open the little trunk. Give me the 
keys.” 

“The amount of kissing lately has been sim- 
ply scandalous. I shall expect Torp to kiss me 
next. He is more likely to swear at me for get- 
ting in his way, though. Well, it won’t last 
long — Ohe, Madame, help me to my toilette of 
the guillotine! There will be no chance of 
dressing properly out yonder. 

He was rummaging among his new cam- 
paign kit, and roweling his hands with the 
spurs. There are two ways of wearing well- 
oiled ankle- jacks, spotless blue leg-bands, 
khaki coat and breeches, and a perfectly pipe- 
clayed helmet. The right way is the way of the 
untired man, master of himself, setting out 
upon an expedition, well pleased. 

“Everything must be very correct,” Dick 
explained. “It will become dirty afterward, 
but now it is good to feel well dressed. Is ev- 
erything as it should be ?” 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 335 


He patted the revolver neatly hidden under 
the fulness of the blouse on the right hip and 
fingered his collar. 

“I can do no more/’ Madame said, between 
laughing and crying. “Look at thyself — but I 
forgot.” 

“I am very content.” He stroked the crease- 
less spirals of his leggings. “Now let us go 
and see the captain and George and the light- 
house boat. Be quick, Madame.” 

“But thou canst not be seen by the harbor 
walking with me in the daylight. Figure to 
yourself if some English ladies” — - 

“There are no English ladies; and if there 
are, I have forgotten them. Take me there.” 

In spite of his burning impatience it was 
nearly evening ere the light-house boat began 
to move. Madame had said a great deal both to 
George and the captain touching the arrange- 
ments that were to be made for Dick’s benefit. 
Very few men who had the honor of her ac- 
quaintance cared to disregard Madame’s ad- 
vice. That sort of contempt might end in be- 
ing knifed by a stranger in a gambling hell 
upon surprisingly short provocation. 

For six days — two of them were wasted in 
the crowded Canal — the little steamer worked 
her way to Suakin, where she was to pick up 


336 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


the superintendent of lighthouses; and Dick 
made it his business to propitiate George, who 
was distracted with fears for the safety of his 
light-of-love and half inclined to make Dick re- 
sponsible for his own discomfort. When they 
arrived George took him under his wing, and 
together they entered the red-hot seaport, en- 
cumbered with the material and wastage of the 
Suakin-Berber line, from locomotives in dis- 
consolate fragments to mounds of chains and 
pot-sleepers. 

“If you keep with me,” said George, “no- 
body will ask for passports or what you do. 
They are all very busy.” 

“Yes ; but I should like to hear some of the 
Englishmen talk. They might remember me. 
I was known here a long time ago — when I 
was some one indeed.” 

“A long time ago is a very long time ago 
here. The graveyards are full. Now listen. 
This new railway runs out so far as Tanai-el- 
Hassan — that is seven miles. Then there is a 
camp. They say that beyond Tania-el-Hassan 
the English troops go forward, and everything 
that they require will be brought to them by 
this line.” 

“Ah! Base camp. I see. That’s a better 
business than fighting Fuzzies in the open.” 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 337 


“For this reason even the mules go up in the 
iron-train.” 

“Iron what?” 

“It is all covered with iron, because it is still 
being shot at.” 

“An armored train. Better and better ! Go 
on, faithful George.” 

“And I go up with my mules to-night. Only 
those who particularly require to go to the 
camp go out with the train. They begin to 
shoot not far from the city.” 

“The dears — they always used to!” Dick 
snuffed the smell of parched dust, heated iron, 
and flaking paint with delight. Certainly the 
old life was welcoming him back most gener- 
ously. 

“When I have got my mules together I go up 
to-night, but you must first send a telegram to 
Port Said, declaring that I have done you no 
harm.” 

“Madame has you well in hand. Would you 
stick a knife into me if you had the chance?” 

“I have no chance,” said the Greek. “She is 
there with that woman.” 

“I see. It’s a bad thing to be divided between 
love of woman and the chance of loot. I sym- 
pathize with you, George.” 

They went to the telegraph-office unques- 


338 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


tioned, for all the world was desperately busy 
and had scarcely time to turn its head, and Sua- 
kin was the last place under the sky that would 
be chosen for holiday-ground. On their return 
the voice of an English subaltern asked Dick 
what he was doing. The blue goggles were 
over his eyes and he walked with his hand on 
George’s elbow as he replied — 

“Egyptian Government — mules. My orders 
are to give them over to the A. C. G. at Tania- 
el-Hassan. ’Any occasion to show my papers ?” 

“Oh, certainly not. I beg your pardon. I’d 
no right to ask, but not seeing your face before 
I”— 

“I go out in the train to-night, I suppose,” 
said Dick, boldly. “There will be no difficulty 
in loading up the mules, will there?” 

“You can see the horse-platforms from here. 
You must have them loaded up early.” The 
young man went away wondering what sort of 
broken down waif this might be who talked like 
a gentleman and consorted with Greek mule- 
teers. Dick felt unhappy. To outface an Eng- 
lish officer is no small thing, but the bluff loses 
relish when one plays it from the utter dark, 
and stumbles up and down rough ways, think- 
ing and eternally thinking of what might have 
been if things had fallen out otherwise, and all 
had been as it was not. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 339 


George shared his meal with Dick and went 
off to the mule-lines. His charge sat alone in a 
shed with his face in his hands. Before his 
tight-shut eyes danced the face of Maisie, 
laughing, with parted lips. There was a great 
bustle and clamor about him. He grew afraid 
and almost called for George. 

“I say, have you got your mules ready?” It 
was the voice of the subaltern over his shoul- 
der. 

“My man’s looking after them. The fact — 
the fact is I’ve a touch of ophthalmia and I 
can’t see very well.” 

“By Jove! that’s bad. You ought to lie up 
in hospital for a while. I’ve had a turn of it 
myself. It’s as bad as being blind.” 

“So I find it. When does this armored train 
go?” 

“At six o’clock. It takes an hour to cover the 
seven miles.” 

“Are the Fuzzies on the rampage — eh?” 

“About three nights a week. ’Fact is I’m in 
acting command of the night-train. It gener- 
ally runs back empty to Tanai for the night.” 

“Big camp at Tanai, I suppose?” 

“Pretty big. It has to feed our desert-col- 
umn somehow.” 

“Is that far off?” 


340 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“Between thirty and forty miles — in an in- 
fernal thirsty country.” 

“Is the country quiet between Tanai and our 
men ?” 

“More or less. I shouldn’t care to cross it 
alone, or with a subaltern’s command for the 
matter of that, but the scouts get through in 
some extraordinary fashion.” 

“They always did.” 

“Have you been here before, then?” 

“I was through most of the trouble when it 
first broke out.” 

“In the service and cashiered,” was the sub- 
altern’s first thought, so he refrained from put- 
ting any questions. 

“There’s your man coming up with the 
mules. It seems rather queer” — 

“That I should be mule-leading?” said Dick. 

“I didn’t mean to say so, but it is. Forgive 
me — it’s beastly impertinence I know, but you 
speak like a man who has been at a public 
school. There’s no mistaking the tone.” 

“I am a public school man.” 

“I thought so. I say, I don’t want to hurt 
your feelings, but you’re a little down on your 
luck, aren’t you ? I saw you sitting with your 
head in your hands, and that’s why I spoke.” 

“Thanks. I am about as thoroughly and 
completely broke as a man need be.” 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 341 


“Suppose — I mean Fm a public school man 
myself. Couldn’t I perhaps — take it as a loan 
y’ know and” — 

“You’re much too good, but on my honor 
I’ve as much money as I want. ... I tell 
you what you could do for me, though, and put 
me under an everlasting obligation. Let me 
come into the bogie truck of the train. There 
is a fore-truck, isn’t there ?” 

“Yes. How d’you know?” 

“I’ve been in an armored train before. Only 
let me see — hear some of the fun I mean, and 
I’ll be grateful. I go at my own risk as a non- 
combatant.” 

The young man thought for a minute. “All 
right,” he said. “We’re supposed to be an 
empty train, and there’s no one to blow me up 
at the other end.” 

George and a horde of yelling amateur as- 
sistants had loaded up the mules, and the nar- 
row-gauge armored train, plated with three- 
eights inch boiler-plate till it looked like one 
long coffin, stood ready to start. 

Two bogie trucks running before the loco- 
motive were completely covered in with plat- 
ing, except that the leading one was pierced in 
front for the nozzle of a machine-gun, and the 
second at either side for lateral fire. The trucks 


342 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


together made one long iron-vaulted chamber 
in which a score of artillerymen were rioting. 

“Whitechapel — last train! Ah. I see yer 
kissin’ in the first class there!” somebody 
shouted, just as Dick was clambering into the 
forward truck. 

“Lordy ! ’Ere’s a real live passenger for the 
Kew, Tanai, Acton, and Ealin’ train. Echo , sir. 
Speshul edition! Star , sir.” — “Shall I get you 
a foot- warmer ?” said another. 

“Thanks. I’ll pay my footing,” said Dick, 
and relations of the most amicable were estab- 
lished ere silence came with the arrival of the 
subaltern, and the train jolted out over the 
rough track. 

“This is an immense improvement on shoot- 
ing the unimpressionable Fuzzy in the open,” 
said Dick, from his place in the corner. 

“Oh, but he’s still unimpressed. There he 
goes !” said the subaltern, as a bullet struck the 
outside of the truck. “We always have at least 
one demonstration against the night-train. 
Generally they attack the rear-truck where my 
junior commands. He gets all the fun of the 
fair.” 

“Not to-night though! Listen!” said Dick. 
A flight of heavy-handed bullets was succeeded 
by yelling and shouts. The children of the des- 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 343 


ert valued their nightly amusement, and the 
train was an excellent mark. 

“Is it worth while giving them half a hopper 
full ?” the subaltern asked of the engine, which 
was driven by a Lieutenant of Sappers. 

“I should just think so! This is my section 
of the line. They’ll be playing old Harry with 
my permanent way if we don’t stop ’em.” 
“Right O !” 

“ Hrrmph !” said the machine gun through 
all its five noses as the subaltern drew the lever 
home. The empty cartridges clashed on the 
floor and the smoke blew back through the 
truck. There was indiscriminate firing at the 
rear of the train, a return fire from the dark- 
ness without and unlimited howling. Dick 
stretched himself on the floor, wild with delight 
at the sounds and the smells. 

“God is very good — I never thought I’d hear 
this again. Give ’em hell, men. Oh, give ’em 
hell !” he cried. 

The train stopped for some obstruction on 
the line ahead and a party went out to recon- 
noitre, but came back cursing, for spades. The 
children of the desert had piled sand and gravel 
on the rails, and twenty minutes w T ere lost in 
clearing it away. Then the slow progress re- 
commenced, to be varied with more shots, more 


344 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


shoutings, the steady clack and kick of the ma- 
chine guns, and a final difficulty with a half- 
lifted rail ere the train came under the protec- 
tion of the roaring camp at Tanai-el-Hassan. 

“Now, you see why it takes an hour and a 
half to fetch her through,” said the subaltern, 
unshipping the cartridge-hopper above his pet 
gun. 

“It was a lark, though. I only wish it had 
lasted twice as long. How superb it must have 
looked from outside !” said Dick, sighing re- 
gretfully. 

“It palls after the first few nights. By the 
way, when you’ve settled about your mules, 
come and see what we can find to eat in my 
tent. I’m Bennil of the Gunners — in the artil- 
lery lines — and mind you don’t fall over my 
tent-ropes in the dark.” 

But it was all dark to Dick. He could only 
smell the camels, the hay-bales, the cooking, the 
smoky fires, and the tanned canvas of the tents 
as he stood, where he had dropped from the 
train, shouting for George. There was a sound 
of light-hearted kicking on the iron skin of the 
rear trucks, with squealing and grunting. 
George was unloading the mules. 

The engine was blowing off steam nearly in 
Dick’s ear ; a cold wind of the desert danced be- 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 345 


tween his legs; he was hungry, and felt tired 
and dirty — so dirty that he tried to brush his 
coat with his hands. That was a hopeless job; 
he thrust his hands into his pockets and began 
to count over the many times that he had 
waited in strange or remote places for trains 
or camels, mules or horses, to carry him to his 
business. In those days he could see — few men 
more clearly — and the spectacle of an armed 
camp under the stars was an ever fresh pleas- 
ure to the eye. There was color, light, and mo- 
tion, without which no man has much pleasure 
in living. This night there remained for him 
only one more journey through the darkness 
that never lifts to tell a man how far he has 
traveled. Then he would grip Torpenhow’s 
hand again — Torpenhow, who was alive and 
strong, and lived in the midst of the action that 
had once made the reputation of a man called 
Dick Heldar: not in the least to be confused 
with the blind, bewildered vagabond who 
seemed to answer to the same name. Yes, he 
would find Torpenhow, and come as near to the 
old life as might be. Afterward he would for- 
get everything: Bessie, who had wrecked the 
Melancolia, and so nearly wrecked his life; 
Beeton, who lived in a strange unreal city full 
of tin-tacks and gas-plugs and matters that no 


346 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


men needed ; that irrational being who had of- 
fered him love and loyalty for nothing, but had 
not signed her name; and most of all Maisie, 
who, from her own point of view was undenia- 
bly right in all she did, but oh, at this distance, 
so tantalizingly fair. 

George’s hand on his arm pulled him back to 
the situation. 

“And what now?” said George. 

“Oh, yes, of course. What now? Take me 
to the camel-men. Take me to where the scouts 
sit when they come in from the desert. They 
sit by their camels, and the camels eat grain out 
of a black helmet held up at the corners, and 
the men eat by their side just like camels. Take 
me there !” 

The camp was rough and rutty, and Dick 
stumbled many times over the stumps of scrub. 
The scouts were sitting by their beasts, as Dick 
knew they would. The light of the dung-fires 
flickered on their bearded faces, and the camels 
bubbled and mumbled beside them at rest. It 
was no part of Dick’s policy to go into the des- 
ert with a convoy of supplies. That would lead 
to impertinent questions, and since a blind non- 
combatant is not needed at the front, he would 
probably be forced to return to Suakin. He 
must go up alone, and go immediately. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 347 


“Now for one last bluff — the biggest of 
all,” he said. “Peace be with you, brethren !” 
The watchful George steered him to the circle 
of the nearest fire. The heads of the camel- 
sheiks bowed gravely, and the camels, scenting 
a European, looked sideways, curiously like 
brooding hens, half ready to get to their feet. 

“A beast and a driver to go to the fighting 
line to-night,” said Dick. 

“A Mulaid?” said a voice, scornfully nam- 
ing the best baggage-breed that he knew. 

“A Bisharin,” returned Dick, with perfect 
gravity. “A Bisharin without saddle-galls. 
Therefore no charge of thine shock-head.” 

Two or three minutes passed. Then — 

“We be knee-haltered for the night. There 
is no going out from the camp.” 

“Not for money?” 

“H’m ! Ah ! English money ?” 

Another depressing interval of silence. 

“How much?” 

“Twenty-five pounds English paid into the 
hand of the driver at my journey’s end, and as 
much more into the hand of the camel-sheik 
here, to be paid when the driver returns.” 

This was royal payment, and the shiek, who 
knew that he would get his commission on the 
deposit, stirred in Dick’s behalf. 


348 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“For scarcely one night’s journey — fifty 
pounds. Land and wells and good trees and 
wives to make a man content for the rest of his 
days. Who speaks ?” said Dick. 

“I,” said a voice. “I will go — but there is no 
going from the camp.” 

“Fool! I know that a camel can break his 
knee-halter, and the sentries do not fire if one 
goes in chase. Twenty-five pounds and an- 
other twenty-five pounds. But the beast must 
be a good Bisharin; I will take no baggage 
camel.” 

Then the bargaining began, and at the end of 
half an hour the first deposit was paid over to 
the sheik, who talked in low tones to the driver. 
Dick heard the latter say: “A little way out 
only. Any baggage-beast will serve. Am I a 
fool to waste my cattle for a blind man ?” 

“And though I cannot see” — Dick lifted his 
voice a little — “yet I carry that which has six 
eyes, and the driver will sit before me. If we 
do not reach the English troops in the dawn he 
will be dead.” 

“But, where, in God’s name, are the troops?” 

“Unless thou knowest let another man ride. 
Dost thou know? Remember it will be life or 
death to thee.” 

“I know,” said the driver, sullenly. “Stand 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 349 


back from my beast. I am going to slip him.’' 

“Not so swiftly. George, hold the camel’s 
head a moment. I want to feel his cheek.” The 
hands wandered over the hide till they found 
the branded half-circle that is the mark of the 
Bisharin, the light-built riding-camel. “That 
is well. Cut this one loose. Remember no 
blessing of God comes on those who try to 
cheat the blind.” 

The men chuckled by the fires at the camel- 
driver’s discomfiture. He had intended to sub- 
stitute a slow, saddle-galled baggage-colt. 

“Stand back!” one shouted, lashing the 
Bisharin under the belly with a quirt. Dick 
obeyed as soon as he felt the nose-string 
tighten in his hand, — and a cry went up, 
Tllaha! Aho! He is loose.” 

With a roar and a grunt the Bisharin rose to 
his feet and plunged forward toward the des- 
ert, his driver following with shouts and lam- 
entation. George caught Dick’s arm and hur- 
ried him stumbling and tripping past a dis- 
gusted sentry who was used to stampeding 
camels. 

“What’s the row now ?” he cried. 

“Every stitch of my kit on that blasted 
dromedary,” Dick answered, after the manner 
of a common soldier. 


350 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


“Go on, and take care your throat’s not cut 
outside — you and your dromedary’s.” 

The outcries ceased when the camel had dis- 
appeared behind a hillock, and his driver had 
called him back and made him kneel down. 

“Mount first,” said Dick. Then climbing into 
the second seat and gently screwing the pistol 
muzzle into the small of his companion’s back, 
“Go on in God’s name, and swiftly. Good-bye, 
George. Remember me to Madame, and have 
a good time with your girl. Get forward, 
child of the Pit !” 

A few minutes later he was shut up in a 
great silence, hardly broken by the creaking of 
the saddle and the soft pad of the tireless feet. 
Dick adjusted himself comfortably to the rock 
and pitch of the pace, girthed his belt tighter, 
and felt the darkness slide past. For an hour 
he was conscious only of the sense of rapid 
progress. 

“A good camel,” he said at last. 

“He has never been underfed. He is my own 
and clean bred,” the driver replied. 

“Go on.” 

His head dropped on his chest and he tried 
to think, but the tenor of his thoughts was 
broken because he was very sleepy. In the half 
doze it seemed that he was learning a punish- 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 351 


ment hymn at Mrs. Jennett’s. He had com- 
mitted some crime as bad as Sabbath-breaking, 
and she had locked him up in his bedroom. But 
he could never repeat more than the first two 
lines of the hymn — 

When Israel of the Lord beloved 
Out of the land of bondage came. 

He said them over and over thousands of 
times. The driver turned in the saddle to see if 
there were any chance of capturing the revolver 
and ending the ride. Dick roused, struck him 
over the head with the butt, and stormed him- 
self wide awake. Somebody hidden in a clump 
of camel-thorn shouted as the camel toiled up 
rising ground. A shot was fired, and the si- 
lence shut down again, bringing the desire to 
sleep. Dick could think no longer. He was too 
tired and stiff and cramped to do more than 
nod uneasily from time to time, waking with a 
start and punching the driver with the pistol. 

“Is there a moon ?” he asked, drowsily. 

“She is near her setting.” 

“I wish that I could see her. Halt the camel. 
At least let me hear the desert talk.” 

The man obeyed. Out of the utter stillness 
came one breath of wind. It rattled the dead 
leaves of a shrub some distance away and 


352 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 


ceased. A handful of dry earth detached itself 
from the edge of a rain trench and crumbled 
softly to the bottom. 

“Go on. The night is very cold.” 

Those who have watched till the morning 
know how the last hour before the light length- 
ens itself into many eternities. It seemed to 
Dick that he had never since the beginning of 
original darkness done anything at all save jolt 
through the air. Once in a thousand years he 
would finger the nail-threads on the saddle- 
front and count them all carefully. Centuries 
later he would shift his revolver from his right 
hand to his left and allow the eased arm to 
drop down at his side. From the safe distance 
of London he was watching himself thus em- 
ployed, — watching critically. Yet whenever he 
put out his hand to the canvas that he might 
paint the tawny yellow desert under the glare 
of the sinking moon, the black shadow of the 
camel and the two bowed figures atop, that 
hand held a revolver and the arm was numbed 
from wrist to collar-bone. Moreover, he was 
in the dark, and could see no canvas of any 
kind whatever. 

The driver grunted, and Dick was conscious 
of a change in the air. 

“I smell the dawn,” he whispered. 


THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 353 


“It is here, and yonder are the troops. Have 
I done well?” 

The camel stretched out its neck and roared 
as there came down wind the pungent reek of 
camels in square. 

“Go on. We must get there swiftly. Go 
on. 

“They are moving in their camp. There is 
so much dust that I cannot see what they do.” 

“Am I in better case? Go forward.” 

They could hear the hum of voices ahead, 
the howling and the bubbling of the beasts and 
the hoarse cries of the soldiers girthing up for 
the day. Two or three shots were fired. 

“Is that at us? Surely they can see that I 
am English,” Dick spoke angrily. 

“Nay it is from the desert,” the driver an- 
swered, cowering in his saddle. “Go forward, 
my child ! Well it is that the dawn did not un- 
cover us an hour ago.” 

The camel headed straight for the column 
and the shots behind multiplied. The children 
of the desert had arranged that most uncom- 
fortable of surprises, a dawn attack for the 
English troops, and were getting their distance 
by snap-shots at the only moving object with- 
out the square. 

“What luck ! What stupendous and imperial 


354 THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 

luck!” said Dick. “It’s ‘just before the battle, 
mother.’ Oh, God has been most good to me ! 
Only” — the agony of the thought made him 
screw up his eyes for an instant — Maisie. . .” 

“Allahu! We are in,” said the man, as he 
drove into the rearguard and the camel knelt. 

“Who the deuce are you? Despatches or 
what? What’s the strength of the enemy be- 
hind that ridge? How did you get through?” 
asked a dozen voices. For all answer Dick took 
a long breath, unbuckled his belt, and shouted 
from the saddle at the top of a wearied and 
dusty voice, “Torpenhow ! Ohe, Torp! Coo-ee, 
Tor-pen-how.” 

A bearded man raking in the ashes of a fire 
for a light to his pipe moved very swiftly to- 
ward that cry, as the rearguard, facing about, 
began to fire at the puffs of smoke from the 
hillocks around. Gradually the scattered white 
cloudlets drew out into long lines of banked 
white that hung heavily in the stillness of the 
dawn before they turned over wave-like and 
glided into the valleys. The soldiers in the 
square were coughing and swearing as their 
own smoke obstructed their view, and they 
edged forward to get beyond it. A wounded 
camel leaped to its feet and roared aloud, the 
cry ending in a bubbling grunt. 






r 



'jap ' • ■ 
\ ■ 



Copyright, 1909, by The Edinburgh Society 





THE LIGHT THAT FAILED 355 


Some one had cut its throat to prevent confu- 
sion. Then came the thick sob of a man re- 
ceiving his death-wound from a bullet : then a 
yell of agony and redoubled firing. 

There was no time to ask any questions. 

“Get down, man! Get down behind the 
camel !” 

“No. Put me, I pray, in the forefront of the 
battle.” Dick turned his face to Torpenhow 
and raised his hand to set his helmet straight, 
but, miscalculating the distance, knocked it off. 
Torpenhow saw that his hair was grey on the 
temples, and that his face was the face of an 
old man. 

“Come down, you damned fool! Dickie, 
come off!” 

And Dick came obediently, but as a tree falls, 
pitching sideways from the Bisharin’s saddle 
at Torpenhow’s feet. His luck had held to the 
last, even to the crowning mercy of a kindly 
bullet through his head. 

Torpenhow knelt under the lee of the camel 
with Dick’s body in his arms. 


THE END. 


* 







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